


Phobia

by SierraLaufeyson13



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, I just love him so much, They bicker like an old married couple anyway, ive put in 300 hours of gameplay and i want Alexios stories dammit, kinda soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2020-10-17 12:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 46,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraLaufeyson13/pseuds/SierraLaufeyson13
Summary: "Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier;I have seen worse sights than this."Fate decrees two kindred souls from two different empires will find one another, and the spear shall be made whole again.





	1. Prooemium

_"any moment might be our last. everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. you will never be lovelier than you are now."_

☤☤☤

☤☤☤

WAVES BATTER THE trireme as Poseidon rages in the depths of the Aegean. Apollonides grips onto the railing with one hand, the other holds tight to the Staff of Asklepius. His face pale. The serpent figurehead dives downward and a swell breaks over the bow. A powerful wall of water claims three deckhands, sweeping them into the sea. He has spent his life at sea, traveling between the Dodecanese Isles as a physician and surgeon, but has never endured a storm like this.

The dark waters churn and Zeus unleashes his fury upon the sky. Fulminations of light illuminate jagged rocks jutting from the water. The storm has driven them toward the shallows. Rowers extend oars, fighting to keep the trireme from crashing into the rocks as the captain and lieutenant bark orders over the storm.

"Is this punishment for turning my back on Athens?" Apollonides shouts at the black sky above, rain and wind lashing his face. A sharp bolt of lightning splits the sky and the tall mast of the ship splinters into a thousand fiery pieces. Thunder erupts. He takes it as his answer. The gods are against him.

Many of his kinsmen had gone to serve in the court of Persian kings before him –none ever mentioned evoking the wrath of gods. He had been promised great rewards if he came to the court of Artaxerxes to tend to the King's marriage brother and his most renowned general. Megabyzus had suffered a grievous injury while leading the forces to strike down the Egyptian revolt and needed a skilled physician.

Reprieve comes by dawn. The sea has settled, but there is no wind to fill the sails and no land on the horizon. Salt has tainted the barrels of water and many men are leaning over the rails, sick. Apollonides knows they must make port soon, else be doomed to thirst and delirium.

The crew pushes through the heat of the day, welcome the veil of night, but do not stop until the ship docks in the early hours of the morning. Ephesus rises on the hills, grand and burgeoning. Apollonides leans heavily on the Staff of Asklepius -an old injury in his leg flaring up. A procession of Artaxerxes men is waiting to escort him to the royal residence.

Markets pass in a blur of color, as do the children chasing one another in the streets. He is taken to Megabyzus without hiatus. The Persian general lies face down on a cot, a pack of herbs and honey covering the entity of his back. Apollonides peels back the fig leaves. The wound is grievous, indeed -and showing signs of septicity. He tells the maidservant the items he will need to begin treatment.

Apollonides works best in solitude, but he soon detects he is not alone. She stands across from him, watching as her husband is tended. A second's glance is all it takes for him to know who she is. "Princess," the physician breathes. Amytis could make Aphrodite envious –with hair blacker than Nyx's, high cheekbones and large amber eyes. However, she does not seem relieved.

Her teeth grind together as she looks at Megabyzus's maimed back. When her mother revealed what occurred in Egypt, Amytis had prayed he would fall from the Chinvat Bridge and never return to plague her. It angers her to know Artyphius had received nothing akin to this type of treatment. No mother should have to bury her weaning child. Artyphius's death only noshes her resent. "You should not go to such efforts for a man like him."

The physician straightens, reaches for a macairion from his tools and begins to shave away the etiolated skin. "He is cruel," Amytis mutters. Marks of her husband's cruelty have faded, but she can recall the sharp pains and lingering bruises he has bestowed upon her. The torment will begin again if he recovers.

"I must do as the king commands," Apollonides counters, continuing to work. Amytis's front falters. Tears swell in the princess's eyes, her bottom lip quivers. She has longed for freedom, but it will be snatched away from her once again. Apollonides watches as she absconds the room, focus returning to his patient.

☤☤☤

A SHEEN OF sweat makes Amytis's skin glow in the moonlight. She lies next to him -fingers tracing patterns over his chest. Apollonides has tended to Megabyzus for over two scores. The general's wounds are clean and healing, but now a mysterious ailment plagues him, keeps him confined to his chambers and bed. The Greek physician saves the man's life and in turn, takes his wife. "We cannot continue this, Amytis," he confesses though the words are hard to say.

She sits up, frowns. "Why not?"

Apollonides sighs, brushes the hair from her face and looks into her haunting amber eyes. There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of longing, his lover's whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad. He wants this and her, but guilt is a strong toxin. The princess convinces him to give her husband small doses of poison, helps him slip the deadly leaves and flowers into teas and wines. It gives them time to be with each other. "He will grow impervious to the nightshade," the physician explains. _Or it will kill him_, but he does not want the stain of murder on his hands. 

Outside of forced marriage, Amytis is a woman of power and strategy. Often the proof shines through in moments when he least expects it, like now -when she is astride him. "If by killing one man you could save a dozen, is it not worth the blood?" She asks, and the question will forever haunt him.

Megabyzus makes a full recovery from his deathbed. He will never draw a bow again, but the general can still march into battle with sword and spear. The Persian king commends Apollonides for his service and makes him the head physician of the western reach of the Persian Empire, provides a permanent practice in Ephesus and a dozen neophytes. 

The princess comes across the physician while walking through the stoa connecting the gardens and residence. Amytis grips onto his arm, pulls him behind one of the columns. They have been apart for too long and she misses his touch. "Meet me in the water garden after sundown," she pleads.

He does as she asks. At sundown he goes to the water gardens and finds her sitting on the edge of a reflection pool, fingers combing through the water. The princess rises when she sees her lover approaching. "Amytis," he breathes, taking her delicate face into his hands. She smiles, reaches up to kiss him. Apollonides is hesitant, but it fades.

"Come away with me," she whispers as they part, a soft prayer only he has the power to answer. "We could go anywhere, Apollonides." The princess reaches for his hand, brings it to rest upon her belly. He pales at the implications. "The three of us."

"You-" He begins and she nods, fighting to hide her smile. Apollonides knows they cannot leave Persia without repercussions, but he promises to care for her and the child. Amytis knows she is fortunate to have met such a kindhearted man. Through her tears, she kisses him again and asks the gods what she had done to make them bind her to a man like Megabyzus. 

The princess's belly swells in time and Megabyzus grows more skeptical about the child in her womb. Amytis swears she laid with him in his recovery but has now taken a vow of asceticism, refusing the touch of her husband. Yet she welcomes the touch of Apollonides, the physician who has promised to see her through the pregnancy.

When the child is born, Amytis weeps. It is a healthy girl, with a tuft of dark hair and bright blue eyes that belong neither to Amytis nor Megabyzus.

☤☤☤


	2. A Princess of Persia

☤ ☤ ☤

CRIES OF A newly born child echo off the temple walls. A masked man holds a dagger at the child's neck -awaiting the command from either Megabyzus or the king. "Please!" The princess cries, reaching for the girl. "Not my baby!" Artaxerxes and the queen mother are taken aback by the sudden intrusion.

The general drags Amytis back and strikes her across the cheek. "Whore!" Megabyzus yells, spittle landing on the princess's face. "You lay with another man while I was dying! A Greek no less!" It only adds insult to injury that she had lain with the enemy.

"Enough, Megabyzus!" Artaxerxes shouts, silencing the general. "I have made my decision and you must come to peace with it. The child will not die." The Order has spoken to him -commanded him to save the child. She will be of great importance to see their goals to fruition in the years to come.

"Very well," the general sneers, "then I have made mine." Megabyzus curls his hand into Amytis's pitch locks, forces the princess to her knees and presses a dagger against her throat. Even with the threat of death, she pleads for her child's life. Amestris cries out but is restrained by Artaxerxes as he rises from reflection, furious.

Several members of the Imperial Guard come forth, akinakas unsheathed, but the distance is too great. The general meets his king's hard gaze and begins to drag the blade. The sharp edge sinks and tears flesh. Amytis's cries are silenced by the cold bite of iron. Her mother screams, clawing bloody streaks down her face in horror.

He laughs as the first sword slips between his ribs and continues to do so even when a second and third one pierces his back. Megabyzus falls to his knees -through the pain he is victorious. The leader of the Immortals approaches, thrusts a blade into the traitor's neck, twists the hilt and pulls it free with a fountain of red.

Megabyzus's men had been commanded to bring Apollonides before the king, to answer for his adulterous crimes. When they arrive, their leader is dead but it is the sight of the princess laying still that spurs Apollonides into motion. "No!" The physician sprints toward Amytis, tearing away from the guards' grips with insurmountable strength unbecoming of his thin frame.

Blood sluices down her neck, filling her chest with each labored breath. Apollonides tears off his healer's sash, kneels and wraps it around her throat to stay the inevitable. Her blood –still warm, soaks through his robes and stains his hands. The world around him vanishes. Amytis grips onto his hands. "I-" she starts, barely audible. "Irene," she mouths, voice gone. Then her eyes slip closed as if she were only tired, but this is a sleep the princess will not wake from.

Apollonides curses the gods and his own cowardice as he clutches her still form against him, sobbing. Amestris gives him only minutes to mourn, only one chance to hold his newborn daughter before he is taken away in chains. 

☤ ☤ ☤

AN EMPIRE MOURNS for the loss of Amytis. Her shroud is violet with golden suns and silver stars painted upon the fabric. She will be buried in the ceremonial capital –thousands of miles from Ephesus and the sight of the Aegean sea. 

Artaxerxes looks down at the orphaned princess. He wishes to raise her in the palace at Persepolis with Damaspia, but Amestris loathes the sight of the child –sees the baby as her daughter's killer, despite witnessing Megabyzus's betrayal. The thought of a raising a princess is bittersweet, though too many have spoken and he cannot take his sister's daughter. "I cannot take her as my own," he admits. 

"You have lost many sons, Hydarnes," the king then states, glancing at the old general. "Take her as your daughter, but keep the truth." The truth is dangerous, and the Order will need her.

The little princess begins to cry. Hydarnes reaches into the cradle, lifts her into his arms. He has forgotten what it feels like to hold something so fragile and innocent. "Of course, Artaxerxes. But what of Amytis's son? Zephyr?"

Zephyr is a boy of five and shows promise in his lessons and training. He is only a pawn, though. The Order has no plans for the young prince. He is not tainted like his young step-sister. "He shall be my ward," Artaxerxes decides. He considers it a last act of kindness on his sister's behalf. "He is young, still malleable." Hydarnes accepts the answer, even if it is not one he supports.

Amytis's cortège leaves Ephesus in two days. Hydarnes watches from the middle of the street as the line of horses and wagons depart to the east. Once the traveling party is out of sight, he looks down at Irene and smiles. So long as the little princess is under his protection, no one -not even the Order- shall ever harm her. 

☤ ☤ ☤

THE PRINCESS SOON grows into her mother's beauty, but in place of Amytis's amber eyes are the same lapis lazuli of her father -Apollonides. No one knows what happened to the physician, only that Amestris had led him away in chains. Some say the queen mother had him buried alive, others claim she keeps him locked away. Either way, Irene grows up in a cruel world not knowing her mother or father.

Though his experience comes from many sons, Hydarnes believes he is doing a fine job raising Irene. Something about a daughter seems easier. She is sweeter than his boys ever were and promises she will look after him when he is truly old. He is honored to be the first man she loves.

Hydarnes brings her to the roof of his manse. Perched on a hill outside of Ephesus, it offers sweeping views of the city and sea to the west and untamed nature to the east. The sun has set, and a waxing moon is on the rise. Irene situates herself among a pallet of blankets and pillows -knowing a visit to the roof means a story.

He lights several lanterns, pulls an item from an ornate chest and sits next to the princess. "Do you know what this is?" He questions, holding out a broken wooden shaft with a mounted, leaf-shaped blade.

"It's a spear," Irene answers, disappointed it was not something more impressive. Once he had let her hold the tiara from some distant eastern kingdom, but this was only a broken spear -she's seen a dozen of them watching Hydarnes train young soldiers. 

The old general holds his stomach, laughing. "Not just any spear, young one." He places the broken weapon in her small hands, watches closely as she turns it over. "This is the spear of the great Spartan king, Leonidas." Irene has heard many stories of Leonidas and the brave three hundred. Hydarnes can remember the Battle of Thermopylae as if were only yesterday. Though enemies on the battlefield, he respects the warrior nation of Sparta and the kings who fight their own battles.

"Where is the other half?" She asks.

"Lost in battle," he tells her. He and his men had searched for the other half, unbeknownst that a young Thebian hoplite had taken it to return to Queen Gorgo and her children, along with the fallen king's shield. "But this-" he takes the spear and taps the flat of the tip against her nose "–this and a king's helm were proof that Leonidas had been slain." Hydarnes had personally delivered both prizes to King Xerxes, a moment marking the apogee of his career. 

Though now, as he looks at Irene, the old general feels as though he truly realizes his purpose. She is a Princess of Persia and greatness has been written in her destiny.

☤ ☤ ☤


	3. The Flight

☤☤☤

THE OLD GENERAL oversees the training of soldiers in and around Ephesus. He walks among the ranks of young men, Irene as his shadow. She's an excellent observer and begins to point out when soldiers make mistakes –much to their chagrin. Nothing dampens a man's ego quite like being corrected in matters of war by a six-year-old girl.

Finally, the princess gathers enough courage to confront Hydarnes. "Can I be a warrior?" She asks –the question has been on her mind for many weeks. Most girls are taught the importance of raising strong children, but Irene has the opportunity to learn more, to be more.

Hydarnes chuckles, runs his fingers through a close-cut silver beard in contemplation. "Is that what you want to be?" He asks in return.

Irene enjoys being a girl –she likes pretty dresses, delicate flowers, and honeyed sweets. Maybe she doesn't truly want to be a warrior, but she does want to learn to fight, to defend herself and her friends should she ever need to. "I'd like to know how," the princess admits, refining her previous question.

"Very well," he comments, "you'll start training tomorrow." They begin with short spears made entirely of wood. Hydarnes first teaches her defensive stances, shows her ways to strengthen her body and balance. The same drills he goes over with boys before they become men.

"Every bruise is a lesson." She has acquired her fair share of lessons. For a time, her legs and arms are covered in splotches of black and blue. In turn, Irene becomes quicker, a harder target to hit –especially for an aging general. Once she had busted her lip, Hydarnes thwacks her on the arm for dwelling on the pain too long. "Every hurt teaches us to be better," he tells her.

Time makes her stronger, quicker, and resilient, but she still has much to learn. The old general swings the staff low, knocking the princess off her feet and into a bed of wildflowers. "And remember," he says placing the end of the training staff against her neck, "hesitation will only hasten the grave." In battle, every second counted.

Pleased with the progress Irene has made over the year, Hydarnes decides it is time for her to have more than a wooden staff to train with. He reveals the broken spear of Leonidas, holds it out for Irene to take. "Practice with this," he tells her. It is a good size for a girl of her stature, is heavier than practice staffs, but lighter than swords and full spears.

"Really?" She asks and Hydarnes nods.

The princess takes the broken spear and steps back, swinging tentatively at an invisible enemy. She grips onto the wooden shaft with both hands –and something in the spear awakens to her. Though she wants to let go, the spear will not let her. Still images flash before her eyes, like a hidden memory. "Irene?!" Hydarnes cries, but she does not hear him. The old general grips onto the splintered end and recoils instantly –his palm singed.

Lightning flashes overhead. Rain clatters against metal armor. A woman is screaming and crying –held back by two soldiers and a man holding a boy by the arm over a dark chasm. Lightning coruscates across the sky again. Thunder erupts and the man lets go. The glow of the spearhead dies down, and Irene drops the broken weapon, stumbling back. "I saw a boy," she whispers, "they threw him from a mountain."

☤☤☤

WORD ARRIVES THAT Artaxerxes has returned to Ephesus, and Hydarnes receives a sudden summons to the king's court. But the old general has heard rumors founded in more truth then he should like. Artaxerxes has resisted the sway of the Order for years, but now he too has fallen to their influence. “They want the child,” the king announces, offering a cup of wine to the old general. He has not looked upon his sister's daughter since leaving her in Hydarnes's care seven years ago and now he will offer her to the highest bidder.

“No," Hydarnes replies, refusing the wine and his king.

“The Order demands it," Artaxerxes hisses –he must do their bidding or be disposed of as his father was before him. Hydarnes remembers when Artabanus came to his door, seeking shelter for the night with his young daughter, Neema. He fled a failed attempt at regicide. Fearful Artaxerxes would follow in his father's footsteps and become nothing more than a pawn of the Order. Artabanus's fears have come to be a reality.

Sparks of defiance flare-up in Hydarnes dark eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to care for her," the king laughs, derisive.

“Like my own flesh and blood," the general states. _Take her as your daughter_. “I did only as you commanded me."

“For the sake of peace, give Irene to them." One girl or an empire -it should be an easy decision to make for the old general. The Order will tear Persia apart if they do not have their way. “Your duty is to the throne, Hydarnes,” the king's tone is sharp, "need I remind you what happens to people who resist the Order?"

Hydarnes bows his head. “I shall return,” he utters though it pains him to say.

Artaxerxes is pleased with his compliance. It would have been a shame to lose such an esteemed general over the likes of a young girl. “See that it does not take long. The Order is not patient." Hydarnes looks over his shoulder and nods. "Bring that broken spear, too,” the king adds. 

Hydarnes returns to his manse in haste and wakes the princess in the night, tells her to change into something warm. Though confused and lethargic, Irene listens. She ties a wool cape around her shoulders and fastens the straps of her small boots. He leads her toward the north into the dark forest.

There are a dozen question on her tongue and Hydarnes can see most of them in her wide, started eyes. "Keep quiet, child," he whispers before she can ask anything. They must move swiftly to avoid capture, though the general knows the Order will never stop searching for her.

They come to stop at a stream, a horse and rider are waiting beneath a twisted olive tree. Zephyr. Hydarnes clasps arms with the king's ward and passes along a sealed scroll to be delivered to an Athenian statesman. Amytis's son is who alerted him to the Order's intentions and the purpose behind the king traveling to Ephesus again. "Zephyr will take you across the sea," he says, "you will be safer there."

Seeing her bottom lip tremble and tears well in her blue eyes reminds Hydarnes the princess is still a girl –still only a child. "I don't want to leave!" Irene cries.

"You must," he tells her with a sad smile. It is the only way she will be safe. "Here-" from his robes, Hydarnes reveals the broken spear of Leonidas "-keep this safe." There is something special about the spear and something special about the girl who can wield it.

Irene wraps her arms around the old general, unwilling to let go. Wolves are howling at the moon, and the wind carries the drum of horse hooves and metal. Hydarnes lifts the girl into his arms, kisses her temple. "Remember me, young one," he whispers, then places her on the saddle in front of Zephyr. He steps back then brings his hand down on the horse's rear. "Go!" He shouts. "Do not stop!"

It is a hard day's ride to the port city of Miletus and they have not stopped since beginning the journey. Exhaustion claims the horse just outside the city walls. The black mare collapses on the side of the road, unable to carry them any further.

Zephyr finds a boat with blue sails emblazoned with the seal of Athena, barters passage for himself and Irene and offers to double the amount if they leave by sundown. The captain agrees, unable to argue with drachmae and welcomes the two aboard the _Paralus_.

☤☤☤


	4. A Songbird’s Cage

☤☤☤

"ATTIKA!" THE SHIP captain announces three days after they depart from the Port of Miletus. Piraeus rises from the sea in greeting with Athens in the background. Zephyr pays for their passage across the Aegean and leads Irene from the docks.

The civilians point them toward the leader's villa in the southern half of the city. Irene looks to the acropolis, ruins sit upon the hill but one of the columns falls. Its impact shakes the earth. Zephyr takes her hand, pulling her back to the task at hand. A pair of sentinels keep vigilance outside the entrance. They both step forward as Zephyr and Irene approach. "We must speak with Perikles."

Athens' leader comes forward, hands clasped in front of him. At first, Zephyr's request for an audience is denied, but upon seeing the unbroken seal of Hydarnes on a scroll the statesman quickly reconsiders. Perikles invites both of them into the villa, escorts them up to his private solar and away from prying ears.

Zephyr hands the scroll to the statesman and waits while he reads over the message. "This is grave news," Perikles announces, sticking one end of the parchment into a burning candle then drops it into a krater. He motions for the young Persian man to come closer. Irene sits quietly, listening intently.

The door opens, and a woman with dark hair, clothed in a fine blue _peplos_ enters. She walks over to the Athenian, rests one of her hands on his shoulder. "Aspasia," Perikles greets with a warm smile, extending his arm from her to their guests. "This is the son of Princess Amytis and the daughter of Hydarnes. They have come seeking sanctuary."

"Welcome," she replies with a smile –gaze lingering on Irene. Discussions resume promptly and proceed into the late afternoon. Perikles and Zephyr have come to terms -they will be allowed to stay in Athens.

"While I cannot give you my absolute word, I can give you opportunity," Perikles notes. The young man has already proved himself to be an efficacious and taciturn speaker –two qualities present in most politicians. Aspasia leans toward her partner, whispers something in his ear causing him to nod in agreement. "Come to the symposium on the morrow. For now, Megara will see you to a villa."

On cue, a young woman enters the room. Zephyr rises and bows his head in gratitude. "We are in your debt, Perikles," he says, motioning Irene over to him. The statesman gives a reserved smile, but the dark glint in Aspasia's eyes do not sit well with him. Given the opportunity, Zephyr excels in politics and philosophy and though young, Irene watches and learns.

☤☤☤

FOR THE ENTITY of their evening meal, he has been staring at a scroll –its seal already broken. Zephyr doesn't know how to tell Irene what the scroll says. People say he has a silvertongue, but now it has turned to lead. "Hydarnes is dead," he says –regretting the lack of empathy in the words. "Slain by the Order of Ancients." He spares her from the details. The princess is still young and does not need to know the tortures her protector endured.

"What?" Irene asks, dropping an apricot to the floor. She doesn't think she heard him right. Hydarnes couldn't be dead. He was one of the best warriors in Persia. Everyone respected him –even the likes of Perikles. She thinks back to the night when everything changed, the old general had been adamant about seeing her flee Ephesus and refused to follow. The princess starts to shake, tears gather in her eyes. "Did he die because of me?"

"No!" Zephyr says quickly, gripping onto her shoulders. "The Order of Ancients did this, Irene. Not you." He draws in a slow, deep breath and glances down at his hands. He isn't meant to be the one to tell her, but there is no one else in Greece who knows the truth. "I suppose it's time you know." Irene looks at him as if he has grown a second head. She knows her truth -as the daughter of Hydarnes. "You are a Princess of Persia," Zephyr tells her. "Amytis was your mother and mine."

Irene wants to laugh, but it sticks in her throat. "Brother?" She whispers, uncertain.

Zephyr nods then offers a weak smile. "Sister. You never supposed to know," he admits, kneeling in front of her. Hydarnes had been convinced anonymity was the only to protect Irene from the Order. Though now that she knows her heritage, she can begin to protect herself as well. 

"My father-" Irene starts, unsure if she wants to know the truth, "-was Apollonides of Kos," her brother finishes. Zephyr brushes away her tears and moves short wisps of dark hair away from her round face. "But what matters is that we have each other now, and we always will."

☤☤☤

HER BROTHER HAS laid down his sword and spear, settling instead for intellectual battles with the likes of Sokrates and Anaxagoras. Irene is not so accommodating of the change. Hydarnes had trained with her every afternoon. She was not going to give up years of lessons and trade a sword for a pen when she could effectively wield both.

Zephyr finds her in the courtyard of their villa, jabbing an invisible foe with a broken spear. He would find it amusing if they were not supposed to attend a meeting in the upper agora with Perikles and his ward. "What do you think you're doing?" He asks, crossing his arms.

"Training," she answers, pausing only to pick up a blunted kopis. 

His sister wields the two blades with efficiently. She is light on her feet and quick. Though for all her training she has never seen combat. Zephyr hopes she never will, but relations between Sparta and Athens are deteriorating and war looms on the horizon. "For what?"

Anger flares up in her eyes. She has grown tired of the sheltered life Zephyr insists is for her well-being since entering womanhood. Small moments of freedom and glances at the world outside the city walls feed her ambition. "War? Peace? For when I walk the streets alone at night?" In her ire, she doesn't notice the spear is glowing until its power knocks her back and to the ground.

Lightning flashes and thunder erupts. A woman screams and a boy falls from the mountainside. It's always the same thing –a memory that does not belong to her. "Irene!" Her brother exclaims, falling to his knees next to her. It always frightens him when this happens.

The vision fades almost as quickly as begins. She sits up, glances between the spear and her brother then rises to her feet. "I'll be down to the agora shortly," Irene tells him and through her false smile, he can see the war waging in her thoughts.

☤☤☤

ONE NIGHT, SHE sneaks out of the city and roams the countryside. It is quiet and peaceful, even among the ruins of Hera's temple. From the felled columns of marble, ships can be seen entering Saronic Gulf from the Aegean in the west. To the east are the rugged stone hills that protect Athens on one side. Anthousai dance among the shadows of the ruins and white flowers bloom under Selene's light.

Irene's calm is interrupted by the desperate cries of a woman and the laughing of men. She looks up at Selene, draws in a heavy breath and follows the pleading cries into the forest. 

Two men loom over a bloodied woman –no older than Irene. She glances around the small clearing, sees there are no others around. Zephyr would tell her to move on. Every act of injustice cannot be prevented, and it is not her place to intervene with the will of the gods. But Irene knows she must act.

Quiet as a shadow, she approaches one of the men –grip tightening on the broken spear. The man cries out as the spearhead sinks into the hollow flesh under his left arm. Blood sluices down the wooden shaft as Irene wrenches it free.

The second man frees a rusty kopis, comes toward her swinging. She ducks down, and the man's swing cuts air. He is slow and clumsy with the smell of wine heavy on his breath. Each miss enrages him, but his moves are predictable. Irene closes in, finding an opening and thrusts the spear up and through the drunkard's neck. The sword falls from his grasp. She jerks the spear free, steps back as the second man stumbles and falls –unmoving.

Hydarnes told her you always remember your first kill, the first time you see the life fade from someone's eyes by your own hand. The spear slides from her fingers –she feels sick. The two corpses wear the sigil of Athenian soldiers. "You killed them," the woman states, backing away from Irene. The princess says nothing in response, only tries to calm her erratic heart and labored breathing. The woman recognizes her rescuer as one of the Athenian elites. "You're-" she starts.

"Go!" Irene shouts lowering her head to hide her face before the woman can finish the sentence. Footsteps fade into the forest and when the princess looks up, she is alone. Blood coats her hands and stains her white _chlamys_. Gathering the broken spear from the ground, Irene runs. 

She stumbles, falls into a stream and begins scrubbing her hands and the white linen, desperately trying to wash away the blood –it only makes the stains larger. The sight causes her to retch. The princess wonders how many lives a soldier or mercenary must take before the guilt goes away.

☤☤☤


	5. A Vow of Vengeance

☤☤☤

RUMORS SPREAD AROUND the city in the days following the incident of a traitor or a Spartan –killing Athenian soldiers. Zephyr finds a bloodstained _chlamys_ hidden amongst a dense patch of flowers to the side of the villa and discovers the shaft of the broken spear has a bloody feminine handprint. He brings both items before Irene, watches the color drain from her face. "Care to explain?" She stays quiet, eyes downcast –the sight of blood still makes her feel sick. "Irene, you cannot do this."

Irene recalls the woman's face, beaten and frightened –of both the men and her. "They were going to rape her!" She blurts out. The gods weren't going to send someone to intervene, so she would do so on their behalf.

"You're lucky they didn't rape you or _worse_!" Zephyr rebukes, regretting the words as soon as they leave his lips. His sister's face grows florid, her expression turns harsh. She doesn't say anything even if her eyes do. "Why were you even outside the city at night?" He asks.

The princess bites down on her tongue. She has felt like a trapped songbird for years. Kept hidden from the outside world. She longs to see new sights on distant horizons, to have adventures like the great heroes of legends. "I want to travel!"

Zephyr pinches the bridge of his nose –he should have known this day would come. "No," he tells her, "you must stay here. There are people in this world who want to find you, Irene." _The Order of Ancients_. He has told her about the Order many times, mostly to frighten her but she is a woman now and no longer easily frightened by stories of men in masks.

"But they won't!" She counters. Irene has learned to hide her tracks well, knows how to hold her own with sword and spear.

Zephyr shakes his head. "You can't know that!" He castigates. She may be a fighter, but Irene is not a warrior and she does not have experience in war. The Order does and they are ruthless. "Hydarnes wanted you to be kept safe." It's an unscrupulous decision to bring up the old general, but it often works.

Irene's harsh exterior falters at the mention of the man who raised her, but she won't let his memory be used against her any longer. She sits straight –resolute. "Then you can come with me," she tells him.

"You're not going to stop are you?" Her brother asks with a heavy sigh. Irene crosses her arms, tilts her head to the side with a raised brow. "Fine," he concedes, arms crossed. "We can sojourn in Euboea. Alkibiades has business there too." Irene rolls her eyes at the mention of Perikles's ward. Alkibiades and Zephyr are _close_, but she'll take the small victory. "Hopefully by the time we return, the people will have forgotten about the men you've killed."

☤☤☤

JOURNEYING TO EUBOEA does not take long. The galley ship, _Lonchi_, docks in Chalkis and will set sail back to Athens in five days. More than enough time for Alkibiades to carry out his business and for Irene to explore the southern coast. The princess purchases two strong horses –then promises to return them to the merchant before leaving.

Amarynthos is a quiet seaside chora within a hard day's ride of the island's principle polis. Irene and Zephyr are greeted warmly by the people and their time in the quiet chora passes too quickly.

"I admit," her brother begins, offering a reserved smile to hide his defeat, "this was nice, though we should be getting back to the chora." The hour has grown late, and the sun starts a slow march toward the mainland and sea. He cannot recall a time when Irene was ever this happy. "I'll fetch Arion," he tells her, wishing to give her extra time to take in the views from the Temple of Artemis as they would be leaving in the morning to return to Chalkis.

Irene sits back on the stone steps, imagines how far she could have traveled by now if not for leading a sheltered life in Athens. Her calm is interrupted by shouting. She curses the gods for their poor timing and rises, but when she hears the shout again her blood runs cold. "Zephyr!" Irene screams, running through trees –she's able to stop herself before entering the glade where the rogues are.

She presses her back against a cypress tree, the rough bark digging into her shoulders and _peplos_. Leonidas's spear is secured on Arion's saddle –just out of reach. A group of five bandits encircle her brother. They've taken his purse of drachmae and the gold medallion from his neck. Next, they will take his life._ Ares and Enyo grant me strength_._ Hermes let me be quick_. Drawing in a slow breath, she bolts past Arion, taking the broken spear.

Twigs snap and underbrush rustles under heavy footfalls. Irene watches a shadow shift, moving closer –a blade in hand. She's swift as a young doe and the spear's tip slips into the man's neck. He only has a second to look upon her before the weapon is ripped free and his lifeblood pulses from the deep gash.

A flash of pale green catches the attention of another bandit. Her heart is pounding in her ears –as she looks at the blood staining her hands, she has to fight the urge to retch. Irene crouches down behind another tree and waits.

Someone passes by her and stops, but doesn't look down. _Cut a man in the right place, and he's good as dead_ Theophilus had told her while binding a poor hunter's wound. The hunter had been gored by a deer's antler and nearly bled to death before they could burn it. Irene sees the same opportunity.

The man feels the cold bite of metal just above the interior of his knee, though before he can react Irene presses the blade's edge into his skin –hard and quickly jerks the spear back. His left leg gives, and blood spurts from the gash in sync with her racing heart. He dies by his own sword before a cry of pain or warning can escape his lips.

Two more fall in the same manner –never reacting soon enough to defend themselves. Irene charges into the clearing but hesitates –the last bandit is holding a jagged blade against Zephyr's neck, face hidden behind a stolen helmet. "Put the spear down, girl." The guttural voice belongs to a woman. Her brother is trembling. Blood flows freely from his nose and mouth.

Zephyr looks up to Irene –shoulders heaving, face twisted in rage, and a blood laden spear clutched in her hand. "Drop the fucking spear!" The bandit shouts at the same time Zephyr twists away. He is not quick enough and something sharp sinks into his chest.

The slight opening is all Irene needs –she darts forward, leaps up and slashes the spear. A warm splatter of blood hits the princess's cheek as the woman falls back, hands clawing at her open throat with a terrible gurgling.

Irene turns with a smile instantly gone when she sees the hilt of the bandit's blade rising from her brother's chest. Zephyr collapses and Irene does too. "I'm sorry," she chokes out through tears, her hands hovering over the blade as blood seeps into the pale tunic. _Medicine runs in your blood, Irene_ he had once told her after she'd found work as an apprentice under Theophilus –though now she doesn't believe it to be true. There is nothing she can do.

He takes her hand. "You fought well." The efforts of her training served her well –not a single drop of blood on her hands or robes was her own. Zephyr knows now his sister can defend herself and that brings him peace in these final moments. "Remember, Irene. The Order will never stop searching for you." He reaches up, strokes her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Always keep vigilant," his voice grows weaker, "always march forward." Her brother's hand falls away.

"I'm sorry, Zephyr!" Irene cries but his warm brown eyes are unfocused, gazing upward at the dying light of day –blind and deaf. "Please don't leave me," she pleads, face tucked into his shoulder but the Keres have already taken him to Hades.

A dark voice begins whispering in her ear, pinning his death on her. _You should have stayed in Athens _it says. _You killed him_. _You killed both of them_. She pulls at her hair and screams –the cry so shrill and filled with despair that the gods could not have ignored it.

Night has fallen by the time Irene sits up –her brother's blood is dried on her hands and clothes, his body cold and pallid. She looks at the short blade, wraps her hand around the hilt and pulls it free. With shaking knees, she rises and follows the sound of flowing water. She has no libations save for Charon's obol. Sunlight breaks through the trees as she lays the last stone over Zephyr's body.

The princess falls to her knees next to the cairn and lays an olive branch on the pile of smooth rock. She holds the dagger that took her brother's life and swears to she will rid the world of injustice with or without the blessing of the gods.

☤☤☤


	6. One the Shores of Fate

☤☤☤

THE BEACHES OF Samos are among the most beautiful to Irene –especially when enjoyed with a skin of famed Samian wine. Dionysus surely blessed the vineyards and vintners of the island. _Indeed_, the merchant had exclaimed after offering Irene a taste of the previous year's vintage. She'd compared it to ambrosia. _If the Olympian Gods drank nectar, it would be Samian wine!_

A golden eagle lands on a piece of driftwood, clutching a large fish in its talons. The bird tears a hunk from the writhing bakallaros, swallows, then turns its piercing eyes to Irene. "Ikaros!" A voice calls on the wind. The eagle looks up, scans the cove then returns to its feast, though Irene is not so eager to forget the call.

"Ikaros!" The voice calls again, closer than before. A man steps from the trees onto the white sand, gaze flicking from Ikaros to a woman. She is standing with sword and spear in hand, face set in grim determination. "How did you come by that?" He asks, pointing at the broken spear in her hand. It bears an odd resemblance to the one he carries.

Her _kopis _is still splattered with blood from a mercenary who attempted to collect on a bounty prior in the day. She has no qualm about mixing it with the blood of another. "Don't come any closer," Irene tells him, raising the spear and sword.

"Who are you?" The man asks. Ignoring her warning, he takes another step. After the people he's fought today, she looks about as dangerous as a wolf cub.

"No one of importance," she answers –tone sharp. He shakes his head and sighs. Irene looks between the man and eagle that now perches on his shoulder. There are rumors among the islands of a _misthios _and a tamed golden eagle. Until now, they have always seemed like just that, rumors and legends though she is reluctant to believe he is more than just a man. "You're the Eagle Bearer," Irene notes, lowering her weapons but not her defenses.

The man crosses his arms, shrugs. "Perhaps, but most call me Alexios." He offers his name in hopes she will tell him hers, but Irene remains silent. "Who are you?" He asks again.

"Someone far from home," she quips, not willing to relinquish her identity so easily to a stranger –a _misthios _no less. It doesn't matter if he is the mythical Eagle Bearer, he still kills for drachmae. 

"Enough riddles!" His voice rumbles with anger. He is annoyed and tired and wants answers. "How do you have that fucking spear?!"

Irene lifts her chin, grip tightening on sword and spear. She does not wish for the day to end in bloodshed. "I don't know you, and I cannot trust you, thus I cannot tell you."

Alexios steps closer to the small fire and Ikaros takes to the sky –his features are sharpened with dark shadows cast by dancing flames. He wants answers but Herodotus's words echo in his head. Don't forget, brute force is useless when finesse is required. It seemed a common trait for women to require finesse. "What will it take for you to trust me?"

She ponders the question. There _is_ something she could use the extra muscle for –the task doesn't necessarily warrant trust, though. "I'm hunting Eurymedon," Irene announces. Alexios is surprised by the mention of the Athenian _strategos_. "He's put a hefty bounty on my head," she explains. Two thousand drachmae for the person who brings her to him, alive and unharmed. The general meant to teach her a lesson in respect –she shudders at the thought. 

He raises his brow –clearly questioning the reason why she is looking for such an esteemed general. Irene flushes as she remembers Eurymedon's actions in the Temple of Hera. "I turned down his drunken advances. Broke his nose and dignity." In retrospect, she should have broken a lot more than his nose for the things he said and did.

Alexios laughs –there is a spark in her. He finds it alluring. "If I help you find him, will you tell me your name?"

☤☤☤

THE HERAION TREASURY is heavily fortified, though by night most of the guards are sleeping in barracks or at their posts. They move like shadows, working in the dark. Alexios has fought side-by-side with people before, but no one has ever moved like her. She is steps ahead of enemies, as quick as Hermes and deadly as Ares.

He kicks a corpse from his sword and looks over his shoulder to see Irene pushing her broken spear through the neck of a guard from behind. She steps in front of the man before he falls and pulls the spear out the other side of his neck. Grace and brutality have never mixed until now.

Eurymedon retracts the bounty, swears it was a mistake and vows it will never happen again, nor will he speak of what happened this night under pain of death. Irene isn't sure if her harsh words are what drove him to the decision or the knife Alexios holds at his neck. Either way, she tosses the scrolls promising payment for her return into a smoldering hearth. 

For the time, Irene has made a small cave her residence. It sits half-hidden beneath a waterfall in the forest and is only accessible by a slim strip of stone bordering the pool and cliff-face. It is a shallow cave filled with trinkets from previous inhabitants. Embers burn red and orange in iron braziers.

Irene discards her sword, glances down at the dried blood on her hands and arms. "What do I owe you for your services?" She asks –there was always some caveat to receiving the help of a sellsword.

Alexios laughs. She was more than capable of carving her way through the treasury guards and convincing the general of his error. "Answers," he replies, crossing his arms. "Who are you?" He inquires for the third time. Something about her is familiar –like a waking dream.

She draws in a slow breath, having given her word to the Eagle Bearer. "The bastard daughter of Amytis and Apollonides of Kos," Irene tells him.

He looks uncertain, but her fear and apprehension are enough assurance she speaks the truth. "You are descended from Xerxes?" He asks, bewildered. People have claimed to be descendants of the Persian king before, but she is the first person he believes.

She nods –wondering if she had just made a mistake by speaking of her heritage, but she is tired of being nobody, of having to craft cleverly told lies. "My name is Irene."

A smile tugs at his lips as he leans back on his hands. "Goddess of Peace," Alexios muses –to him she looks like war and chaos. As if Athena, Aphrodite, and Eris all had a hand in crafting her. "Funny name for a Persian."

As a naïve girl, she didn't understand how one person could create peace. Truthfully, Irene still doesn't understand what she is meant to do. Vengeance drives her now. "Hydarnes told me my mother hoped I could bring some semblance of unity between our nations." The princess glances across the fire at Alexios –he looks like someone driven by vengeance too. She holds out the broken spear. "This is the spear of Leonidas."

He reaches behind him, frees the other half of the broken spear from his quiver and lays it across her folded legs. "I know," Alexios replies. The end he possesses is larger and more ornate, with a single fuller of bronze running down the center of the spearhead. The _misthios _picks up the other half, runs his finger along the blade's edge –it tries to bite into his skin.

Wordlessly they fit the broken ends together. A jolt of power shocks them both. Irene's eyes flick up to meet his. _The boy on the mountain_. Alexios sits back on his haunches in disbelief. _The girl on the ship_. They both want, no _need_ to know more. After a heavy silence, he speaks. "I sail for Athens," he tells her, "and there's always room for another fighter aboard my ship."

Her business on Samos is now complete, and it has been far too long since she had last returned to Attika. Besides, sailing with the Eagle Bearer is likely more eventful than traveling via the Athenian fleet. "Very well," she replies. They will depart at dawn to return to the ship and then Athens. 

Irene rises and sheds the outermost pieces of her armor, begins walking toward the cave's entrance and waterfall. Alexios clears his throat when she unfastens the closures of her _chiton_. "What are you doing?" He asks, caught off-guard by her libertine display. 

The princess looks back over her shoulder, holding her robes in place. "First impressions are important to me. I may be a fighter, but I am still a woman." She does not enjoy being covered in filth or having dried blood beneath her nails. It would be a shame if Alexios's crew mistook her for just a cut-throat. "Look away, _misthios_," Irene instructs, stepping out of the puddle of linen at her feet and into the water. 

☤☤☤


	7. Memories Awoken

☤☤☤

THE _ADRESTIA_ IS not a grand ship. Rails are splintering, hull paint is peeling, and the sail is faded, but Irene can tell it is a sturdy ship and has many stories to tell. Alexios escorts her to the helm. A map of the Aegean is pained on the ship planks. With three paces, she can travel from Samos to Athens –across the entire Greek world.

"Who is this?" Irene jumps at the sonorous voice posing the question. The man asking is grey of hair and beard with a clouded left eye and a kindly smile. He has the look of a veteran sailor.

Alexios clasps the sailor's shoulder and extends his hand toward the woman. "Barnabas, this is Irene," he announces and turns to Herodotus, intent on finishing introductions, but the princess is grinning and moving toward the historian with open arms.

"Herodotus!" Irene exclaims, embracing him as an old friend. "I did not think to see you so far from Attika," she comments –wondering how he, of all people, had come to be acquainted with the Eagle Bearer.

Herodotus looks over the princess's appearance –he is accustomed to seeing her in robes of silk, not armor. "Nor I you," he says in turn. Irene pleads with the historian to speak of his newest findings, and he is happy to oblige. Barnabas speaks too much of the gods and Alexios has little care for many historical accounts, but Irene would hear them all. She wears many titles and among them is antiquarian.

Shortly after she and Alexios board the _Adrestia_, the deckhands are unmooring the ship, preparing for departure. If Poseidon and the Anemoi favored their voyage, it would take no more than three days to reach Piraeus. The sea is calm and the winds are swift. Samos soon disappears on the horizon.

Irene finds the captain to be good company. He is always in high spirits with stories to spare. Something about him is familiar, though. It takes time for her to place his voice and face to memory, but Irene is certain her and the captain's paths have crossed before. "Barnabas?" The captain looks over the brazier, offers the woman a kindly but tired smile. "Have you heard of the _Paralus_?"

The _Paralus_ was the massive two-sailed trireme that carried her and Zephyr to safety from Persia, the pride of the Athenian naval fleet. He laughs, holding onto his side. Both Irene and Herodotus exchange baffled looks at the sudden outburst. "My old ship!" Barnabas exclaims. "She was a beauty. Pity Poseidon felt she'd look better at the bottom of the sea." Poseidon had claimed the sacred Athenian ship and most of the crew during a storm. The same storm claimed his eye, too.

"Do you remember docking in Miletus and ferrying a boy and girl to Athens?" She asks, hopeful he will remember the deed responsible for saving her life.

Barnabas is silent, he looks at Irene and sees a young with pitch hair, wide blue eyes, and a round face looking back at him. "Aye, never did forget a face," the captain replies. "You were a little girl –scared to death you'd fall into the sea." She had been afraid, had wept and clung to her brother. It was her first time at sea and Poseidon granted the _Paralus _a rough passage across the Aegean.

The captain asks what happened after she and her brother departed the _Paralus_. Irene's expression falters to one of wistful melancholy. "We endured," she tells him. The simple response catches Alexios by surprise.

Herodotus retires below deck with many of the crew. Irene falls asleep beneath the stars on one of the benches at the stern. She is tired and the rolling waves rock the _Adrestia_ as a mother rocks a babe. Barnabas and Alexios stand at the helm of the ship, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon. Above them, Ikaros circles on an updraft. The night is quiet, save for the soft breaking of waves and the cool spring sea breeze.

The captain looks over his shoulder at the woman –notices a shiver run through her delicate frame. "We should give her something for warmth," Barnabas notes. Irene is a guest aboard the_ Adrestia_. Disregard for her comfort could anger Zeus Xenios. Alexios rolls his eyes, but unclasps the red scarf from around his shoulders and drapes the fraying material over the princess. "The courteous thing to do," Barnabas remarks, voice remarkably soft as the Eagle Bearer returns to his post.

Irene wakes to the first rays of Helios's light and a gentle weight on her arms. Salt and smoke fill the air, though there is another unfamiliar scent –a mix of cinnamon, sage, and sudor. It comes from the scarlet linen draped over her torso. She sits up, stretches her arms –joints cracking and back popping in succession. A tiny moan leaves her lips.

Alexios is already at the helm of the ship with Ikaros perched on the railing to his left, preening his feathers. The princess rises, wraps the red scarf around her shoulders and steps up to the Eagle Bearer's side. "Do you treat all women aboard your ship with such conviviality?" She inquires.

"The _Adrestia _may have seen its share of fair passengers-" he crosses his arms, shifts on his feet, and glances at Irene "-but not under my command." Part of her thinks it is a modest lie to spare her feelings, but the princess has found mercenaries seldom have a reason to lie –other factors are what tarnish their reputation. 

Irene holds out the scarf. "Thank you, Alexios." Both her smile and gratitude are genuine. 

☤☤☤

"TRAITOR," ALEXIOS MUTTERS under his breath as the golden eagle lands on the helm's railing next to Irene. In just two days it is like she and Ikaros have become the oldest of friends. The eagle has never taken to a stranger so quickly –not even to Phoibe. He enjoys having his feathers ruffled by the princess and has even brought her a stalk of Acanthus from a nearby island. The Eagle Bearer cannot help but wonder if Ikaros knows something he does not.

Irene runs her fingers over the feathers under Ikaros's beak. "Perhaps he finally knows what decent company is like," she counters. Alexios shakes his head, exasperated. He's never come across a woman with a tongue and wit as sharp as a blade. Barnabas laughs below his breath.

They have been in the gods' favor. Early on the third day, the _Adrestia _enters the Saronic Gulf. For Irene, the waters are familiar. In the two years since Zephyr's death, she has passed through these waters a dozen times over seeking vengeance and adventure. She has found it is only the people that keep her returning to Athens.

Piraeus rises from the gulf with Athens sitting above it. The faded sail -emblazoned with an eagle clutching a snake in its talons- is hoisted up and the oars extend down into the water. Merchant vessels and Athenian triremes busy the harbor lanes, steadily coming and going. As if a war has not broken out in the Greek world.

Barnabas points out the Temple of Asklepios as the ship draws nearer –his devotion to the Gods is admirable. The Adrestia docks on the northwestern side of the peninsula. The historian departs first and in haste. Herodotus must find Perikles and cajole the leader into accepting an audience with the Eagle Bearer. With the right words, he knows he can sway the leader into meeting with Alexios. 

Irene soon follows, disembarking the ship. She must attend to her estate and holdings. In her absences, Onesimos maintains the ledgers and grounds amid the other workers who have served since she Zephyr first came to the city. Irene cannot help but feel some guilt for disappearing for untold amounts of time. She looks over her shoulder and finds the _misthios _looking around at the grandeur of Piraeus and the busy _agora_. "Herodotus will be in the Pynx, just west of the Acropolis," the princess tells him.

The Eagle Bearer reaches out, fingers brushing over her wrist. Irene turns toward him. "Where will you go?" Alexios inquires –he does not wish to part ways so soon.

She takes a step back, gestures toward the city and port with an ephemeral smile. "This is my home." Or at least it was the closest thing she had to a home. Irene's smile fades and she takes another step back, easily disappearing into the crowds. 

☤☤☤


	8. Welcome to Athens

☤☤☤

"-AND INVITE AN outsider instead? They don't need another reason to hate me." Irene only hears the last of what Perikles is saying when she steps up into the Pynx. Judging by the strained tone of the statesman and the _misthios_'s stance, the discussions are not going the way Herodotus initially hoped. Perikles's symposiums were known for their exclusivity, after all.

She grips onto Alexios's arm. It would be a shame for him to have come all this way for nothing, especially for such a virtuous cause. "Then allow me to bring him as my guest," the princess offers with a delicate smile, surprising all three men with her sudden appearance. Athens's leader regards Irene's appearance –stunned to find there are no visible bruises or cuts on her exposed skin this time.

"Very well," Perikles concedes with a sigh, trusting her and Herodotus's judgment against his own. His focus returns to the Eagle Bearer. "I would still ask that you aid my friends, _misthios_."

Alexios nods –Herakles had completed twelve tasks. Three wouldn't be a problem. "Consider it done," he replies, willing to play the part if it meant gaining intel on his mother's whereabouts.

Perikles retreats from the square with Herodotus trailing behind him. Alexios's gaze follows the two men until they cannot be distinguished from the crowd, but the princess's focus is on another, less savory character. Kleon the Everyman glances between her and the _misthios_, takes a step toward them. Irene glares at the politician –eyes filled with abhorrence. "Come, Alexios-" she tugs gently on his arm, urging him away from the remainder of the assembly and Kleon "-it is growing late and we have traveled far."

Alexios follows Irene, keeping in stride with the princess and keeping tally of the dubious looks people cast in his direction. "You didn't mention you know Perikles," he accuses in a lighthearted tone as they pass through a small _agora _to the east of the Pynx.

"I thought I had no reason to," she comments, quickly glancing over each stall and vendor. Herodotus was meant to handle negotiations. "Though I am glad to be of assistance." The princess pauses at a vendor selling fresh pomegranates, she fetches two silver _obols _from a concealed coin purse in exchange for two ripe and heavy fruits.

He glimpses her from the corner of his eye. She wears a pale green _peplos _with a Tyrian purple _himation _draped over her shoulder. Her hair falls in loose curls, adorned only with a ribbon dyed the same Tyrian purple. It doesn't occur to him they have stopped moving again until he pulls his gaze away from her.

"This is where you live?" He asks, looking at the house sitting on a small hill. The more he learns about the princess, the more questions he has. She flushes, never having been one to flaunt wealth as some of the other elites. It is not as large as Perikles villa, nor as extravagant as those belonging to esteemed playwrights and sophists in the city but it stands impressive, nonetheless.

"Hydarnes was well respected," she explains leading him into the open courtyard at the villa's center. Despite being Persian the old general had the reputation of an honorable and nobleman. Perikles held him in high regard and had taken both she and her brother under his wing. "My brother, Zephyr, was loved by many in the city too." Zephyr had grown into an Athenian easily enough and in time Irene did as well.

Alexios cannot imagine what strange desires led her to leave and go down the path of a castigator. "Why would you ever leave?" He asks. Almost anyone would choose a life of comfort and wealth over being an itinerant. It is but another enigma surrounding the princess.

There is a longing, distant look her eyes –one that had not been there before arriving in Athens. Her composure falters. "Even a songbird eventually tires of its cage," she tells him, sorrow seeping into her voice.

While he does not know the exact feeling she speaks of he shares the sentiments. Alexios always dreamt of the day he'd finally be able to leave Kephallonia. "And your brother?" He questions, glancing around the empty villa.

Irene pushes down the lump in her throat. Zephyr's death still plagues her dreams and memories. "Murdered by bandits," she tells him –unable to look anywhere else but the stone beneath her feet. 

☤☤☤

IRENE FINDS SHE cannot sleep –after sleeping in caves and along beaches, the bed in her chambers is too soft. It is a common struggle she experiences when coming back to Athens. Comfort and memories often haunt her until she leaves the confines of the city walls. She goes to the roof terrace of the villa.

"Can't sleep either?" Alexios asks as soon as he catches sight of her from the steps leading up to the roof.

The princess spares a moment's glance over her shoulder at the _misthios_, focus quickly turning to the acropolis. "This place feels hollow after-" she can't bring herself to finish the sentence, but Alexios understands the meaning well enough –this place no longer feels like a home.

He sits next to her and follows her unfocused gaze to the Parthenon. It is the grandest temple he has seen in his travels –dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens, Athena. Now the white marble is bathed in moonlight and appears as a beacon of light rising high above the city.

"Where does the _mighty_ Alexios hail from?" Irene asks, emphasizing the epithet Barnabas often uses. It causes him to roll his eyes even if it does bring an amused smile to his lips.

"Kephallonia," he answers. At times, he misses the simplicity of Kephallonian life –tending to Markos's problems and keeping Phoibe out of trouble. The worst thing he had to worry about was when the Cyclops and his miscreants decided to show their faces. There wasn't a war or a Cult seeking domination or a Persian princess.

"What's it like?" Irene wonders aloud. She's never gone so far west before and has only just met someone who could call the island home.

"A shithole," he remarks, but it is not an answer capable of pacifying Irene. "Mount Ainos makes up for most of it," the Eagle Bearer continues. At the peak of the mountain was Zeus's likeness hewn from stone –standing tall over the island with a thunderbolt poised to strike. The statue was impressive, yet it was the sweeping views of the sea Alexios liked best. He cannot come up with the words to describe it, though.

"What is Athens like?" He asks in turn. It is different than Kephallonia or Sparta, but it is clear the banal rumors of a puritanical society are mostly unfounded.

"A shithole," she quips, the corner of her lips quirk upward. Alexios shakes his head, laughing under his breath. "It's better than most places," she says in earnest. Many small villages and _poleis _were plagued by corruption and sickness. Irene would not deny Athens had the same issues, but here people did not walk the streets as living corpses in quiet fear. "Perikles has done great things for the city and its people." With Spartan encampments just outside the city walls and rumors of a Cult, Athens still thrived even with the unrest being stirred by the likes of Kleon.

Irene shifts and looks over the _misthios_. He doesn't have the look of a traditional Spartan, nor does he bear the delicate features of many Athenians. Steeped in moonlight and cloaked in shadows, he is both Ares and Adonis –she doesn't know why it has taken her this long to decide he is handsome.

"What were you doing on Samos?" His question draws the princess away from her thoughts –catches her off-guard.

"I-" she pauses, unsure which lie is best to craft this time but when Irene's eyes dart up to meet his, she is compelled to speak the truth. "Ever since Zephyr died, I've been hunting down bandits," she admits. Irene has lost count of how many bandits she has sent to the underworld, but each death feels as though she is avenging her brother. It feels like justice. _But w__here does seeking justice end, and seeking vengeance begin?_

☤☤☤


	9. Perikles’s Symposium

☤☤☤

"DON'T RUN OFF," Irene tells him. "I'll only be a moment." She returns garbed in loose robes of kyanos and cream, golden cuffs around her wrists, and dark hair pulled away from her face and tucked into a gold diadem. A far cry from how she looked upon their initial meeting on the beaches of Samos.

Alexios is speechless –she is ethereal, and he truly believes she is a princess or perhaps even Aphrodite disguised as a mortal. Irene motions him toward the entrance of Perikles's villa. The guards standing vigilant lower their heads as the princess passes but their gazes follow the mercenary trailing behind her with intense apprehension. "Alexios! It's you!" A girl exclaims, darting forward to wrap her arms around his legs.

"Phoibe?" He's sure his eyes are playing a trick on him. She looks up at him grinning.

"You said you weren't coming back to Kephallonia, so I decided to leave too." The way Phoibe says it makes it seem like the most obvious decision.

"I said_ I_ wouldn't be coming back," he reminds her, "but I don't remember saying you should leave too." Kephallonia was her home and with the Cyclops gone, it was safer than a place like Athens. "What are you doing here? _How_ did you get here?" He asks, doubting she'd been able to make it across the Aegean on her own by legitimate means. 

The girl glances around her friend, finally noticing a strange but pretty face smiling at her. "Who is she?" Phoibe asks. If her attire is anything to go by, then she must be important –like Aspasia.

"This is Irene," Alexios answers, knowing she was only trying to avoid his questions. Sighing, he rises –he'll get answers out of her some other time. 

"I'm here to get you ready," Phoibe remarks, remembering why Aspasia had sent out from the study. "I have to make sure you leave all your weapons and change clothes," she tells him.

He looks down at his armor. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

Irene steps around him and pokes the dark leather cuirass. "Phoibe is right," she remarks. "Athenians tend to be more trusting of people who don't look like they're about to stab them." Alexios puffs out his chest –indignant. She would have offered him one of Zephyr's _chitons_, but her brother did not have the height or breadth of a warrior.

The Eagle Bearer glances between Phoibe and the princess swallowing his pride and comfort. "Fine," Alexios concedes. Pleased with his decision, Irene leaves to join the symposiasts. 

Phoibe smirks. "I like her," she tells Alexios, noticing his gaze still lingers on the woman. "Don't worry," Phoibe says, "I have just the outfit for you."

Alexios clears his throat and Irene turns. His armor and weapons are gone, replaced by a blue _chiton_ fastened at the shoulders with bronze fibulae. Phoibe did well in choosing the ensemble –the color brings out gold flecks in his dark eyes. “You look the part,” she tells him, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric on his chest.

“I don’t feel it,” he admits glancing around the courtyard –unable to remember a time when he had felt so vulnerable. He’d feel better if Phoibe let him keep just one of his knives.

Irene thinks it strange to see a near-legendary warrior so intimidated by a group of poets and playwrights. “Don’t tell me the Eagle Bearer is frightened of a few Athenian aristocrats," she teases.

He holds his hands out, caught off-guard by the missing weight of a blade or bow. "I am unarmed in this fight.”

She smiles, taking a cup of watered wine as one of the servants passes by. "Don't think of it as fight," Irene tells him, taking a drink of the dry vintage, "it's more like a dance." One must learn how to navigate around the symposiasts. _Aristophanes enjoys dry wine. Euripides will only speak freely when intoxicated. Protagoras will avoid Sokrates like the plague_. _Perikles never participates in his symposiums. _It is precarious a dance she learned at a young age.

"I don't dance," Alexios retorts, crossing his arms.

There is a quip on the tip of Irene's tongue –it fades when Alkibiades staggers forward having just arrived. “Vile Sokrates!" He exclaims though most guests pay him no mind. "Always appearing where I least expect him." The licentious man stumbles toward her and Alexios, though his gaze is entirely focused on the latter. He grips onto the _misthios_'s arm. "Warrior protect me from his _amorous _gaze."

Alexios looks as if he’s ready to strangle the man. “Allie!” Irene scolds. He's always known how to make an entrance and at least this time he is still partially clothed, but it does not excuse his behavior.

“Irene!” He cries, wrapping both arms around her. Months have gone by since he had last seen her –sailing off to a new horizon. She’s one of his favorite people in all of Attika, and her absence makes for a dull time.

“You know each other?” Alexios asks, equal parts amused and surprised. He had not pictured Irene to keep such perverse company. In truth, he had not imagined any Athenian to behave like Alkibiades –the man must drink like a Spartan, though Alexios doubts he can fight like one.

“Of course," Alkibiades purrs whilst twirling a lock of her Stygian hair around his finger, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and sage, "I know her better than I know myself, _misthios_.”

Irene rolls her eyes and lightly elbows the ribald man in the ribs. He grunts, distancing himself should she try to harm more _important _areas of him. "Unlike you, Alkibiades, I have standards," the princess bites back.

“You wound me!” Alkibiades exclaims, clutching his heart. His pout turns into a sensual simper. He tugs on a lock of her hair again and circles around the princess appreciating the finer details of her robes and the figure that lies beneath –she could be his greatest prize. “But you’re always welcome, my sweetling, as is your new _friend_.”

Irene scoffs, watches as he turns toward the _andron_ with two courtesans following in his footsteps. There are times when she pities Perikles for haven taken in such an inordinately vain and libidinous relative. Even Sokrates has failed to teach Alkibiades morality. "He's better company when sober," she tells Alexios, drowning out her annoyance with wine, "though not by much."

Herodotus joins them after Alkibiades's flippant display and remarks on their tardiness but Irene is quick to accept the blame and leaves the two men to converse with old friends.

"It is good to see you,” says a familiar voice at her ear.

Irene turns –finding Thucydides standing behind her. "Likewise," the princess replies, struggling to keep a reserved smile. It seems like a lifetime since she last saw the aspiring writer. Life had not been as kind to Thucydides as Herodotus. The former was now a general who stood with his men in battle -a rarity for Athenian commanders. Even now he wears an ornamented bronze breastplate beneath a gold-trimmed _himation_.

"I have an experiment in which I would like you to participate,” he notes. She hopes it’s similar to the last experiment he conducted –having found proof that given breath Sokrates would drone on for hours on end, enamored with the sound of his voice. Thucydides presses a wooden cup filled with wine into Irene's hands. She eyes both the cup and him, curious. "How do you see this?" The scholar inquires.

"With my eyes," she remarks promptly. Thucydides tilts his head, lets out a quiet sigh as he rolls his eyes. He should have known her wit had not dulled since their last encounter. Irene notices his displeasure and reconsiders the question, weighing the cup in her hand and looking into the dark red liquid. "Half-filled with wine," the princess decides.

"But is it not also half-empty?" He poses.

Irene rolls her eyes and takes two long drinks from the cup, turning it up. "And now it _is_ empty," she points out.

Thucydides chuckles, but his point had already been made. "I believe within this simple test is the key to understanding our surroundings." Irene raises her brow, a subtle way of urging him to continue with his explanation. "We must be pragmatic and view the world how it is, not how we _think _it is or should like it to be."

The princess takes Thucydides's hands –they are quite rough given his status. He is not even a decade older than she, but age has taken a toll on his kind features. Part of her thinks he’s being to look more like Hippokrates. "You are beginning to sound like Sokrates, my friend," she remarks with a soft laugh.

He ponders the statement for a moment. "Perhaps in moderation that is not such a horrific thing,” the general reasons. Irene hates admitting it, but Thucydides is right. For his loquaciousness, Sokrates has a rare talent for challenging people to question presuppositions and think critically about the world.

There is a light tugging at the waist of her dress. Irene looks to her side and sees the girl staring up at her, having been afraid to interrupt the discussion at hand. "Phoibe," she greets.

The girl glances in Alexios's direction. He is conversing with Protagoras. “He likes you, I can tell,” she remarks, confident in her observation. Irene smiles –unsure of how to respond. “Aspasia wants to see you," Phoibe quickly adds.

Irene thanks the girl for the message and parts from Thucydides with a friendly farewell. She finds the _hetaera_ in the adjoining study holding a slip of papyrus over a small beeswax candle. As soon as it catches flame, she drops it into a half-broken amphora and rises to meet her guest.

“Aspasia," the princess greets, dipping her head down in obeisance. Aspasia does the same and the two women embrace.

“How goes your search?” She asks. Irene searches for justice though people know that. Aspasia believes she searches for information about the Order of Ancients and her father, Apollonides of Kos.

“I have nothing,” Irene tells the _hetaera_ with a shrug. Dry laughter follows as she extends her arm to reveal a new scar running down the inside of her bicep. “Save one or two new scars,” she adds but Perikles’s partner does not find it amusing.

Aspasia already knows the next question Irene will ask. She shakes her head. “Nothing has surfaced since your last departure.” The Order would not have halted their pursuit though, only moved into the shadows. “We always keep our eyes, and ears open, if anything is seen or heard, you will know it,” she assures the princess. Aspasia smiles and motions for Irene to follow. Her work is done for the evening, now it is time for her to join the symposiasts.

The _hetaera_ clasps her hands together and observes her guests. All but one are familiar. "Perikles tells me you know this mercenary," she comments, surprised to find the_ misthios _is engaged in debate with Sokrates and Thrasymachus, formidable opponents for one presumably not accustomed to scholarly avocation.

Alexios follows Sokrates’s gaze to the two women. Their presence commands the attention of the room. For a fleeting moment, his and Irene’s eyes meet. Irene tears her focus away from him, pushing a lock of fallen hair behind her ear, flushed –she had only just met the Eagle Bearer. "I wouldn't say _know_," she amends, stumbling over the words. Aspasia turns back to the princess. "He's looking for information to help find his mother." 

☤☤☤

PHOIBE BIDS THE two of them farewell and makes Alexios promise to come back soon after returning his armor and weapons. He slings his belongings over his shoulder and follows Irene out of the villa and back into the quiet street. "Some party," he mutters –exhausted from the mindless talking. It feels like hours passed and he only has three weak leads on where to look for his mother.

Irene takes hold of his arm as they pass another villa. She can recall the first symposium Zephyr had taken her to, it had been far less tame. Her brother quickly made friends with Alkibiades after he'd strode through the courtyard completely unrobed. "I would say you get to use to it-" she smiles, shakes her head "-but you never do." Even some Athenians couldn't handle the frivolity of the city's notorious symposiums.

"Wine?" She asks, pouring herself a glass. Her tastes are sweeter than any vintage served at symposiums. He takes what is offered and follows her up to the roof. "Phoibe seems sweet," Irene remarks. In some ways, the girl reminds her of herself at a similar age –headstrong and curious.

The observation makes him laugh in earnest. "When she's not getting herself into trouble," Alexios adds. He's lost count of how many times he's had to rescue the girl from tight spots. She'd always enjoyed picking fights with people who were older and bigger than she was –mostly because she knew Alexios would always have her back. "She was born here," he explains, motioning to the city, "but managed her way to Kephallonia after her parents died."

She can hear the fondness in his voice –he speaks of her as a little sister. "Did she do this?" Irene inquires, touching a golden bead in his hair. He nods. Phoibe had pleaded with him for days after she'd found the beads washed up on the shore. They numbered too few to string a bracelet or necklace and her hair was too short to use them as adornments. Finally, he caved. It's a memory that feels like a lifetime ago.

Alexios takes a drink of the watered-down wine and glances up at Irene. She has a soft smile playing on her lips and cheeks flushed pink from the wine. Bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, he is sure she is a goddess –or at least a demigoddess. 

☤☤☤


	10. A Cult and a Spy

☤☤☤

ALEXIOS SEES TO a number of Perikles friends to garner the leader's trust and favor but finds himself returning to Irene after his tasks are complete instead of the _Adrestia. _Once he finds her in the market, buying _tiganites_ from a street vendor for a group of children –Phoibe is among them. Another time she is buying a ream of blue-green linen from a weaver. The next time he sees Phoibe running through the streets, she is wearing a new tunic of the same color. Other times he finds her in the villa –tending to herbs or flowers.

He returns as the sun is setting, having delivered two Spartan seals to Demosthenes as proof his task had been completed. Irene is not to be found on the lower level of the villa, but there is a long shadow on the roof. The Eagle Bearer climbs the white column closest to the pergola, opting for a shorter route than stairs.

The princess jumps –hand going to her racing heart as he pops up over the railing. "Alexios!" She scolds. "Stop doing that!" He's made a habit of surprising her, whether he climbs to the roof or drops down from it. One time it just might make her heart stop. The _misthios _chuckles as he sheds his weapons and armor. He reclines beneath the pergola. After a long day, it is good to have somewhere to rest his head. 

Irene pushes a platter of fruit, soft cheese, and bread between them. "Herodotus mentioned your sister," she says, watching his expression. She and the historian had spoken briefly over a light meal earlier in the day.

Alexios's jaw clenches. "Kassandra. The Cult of Kosmos must have taken her," he explains. Somehow his sister survived the fall too. The Pythia and ephors had condemned Kassandra to death when she was still a suckling babe in the name of Sparta. It was only meant to be Kassandra who died that night on Mount Taygetos, but he had died too –and came back a blade with no name.

Whispers circulate about a Cult –Irene has never taken the rumors seriously, but she has come to see the errors of her ways, especially after the dire news Herodotus had shared. She looks down into her cup of watered wine and lets out a slow breath. "It seems every corner of the world has cultists crawling about," she remarks offhandedly -thinking about the Order. 

"What do you mean?" He asks.

Irene pulls a shawl around her shoulders –the thought of the Order of Ancients chills her to the core. They were the reason she had to leave Ephesus. The reason Hydarnes was dead. The reason she'd never known her mother or father. "In Persia the Order of the Ancients controls _everything_." Achaemenid kings were nothing more than puppets to promote chaos.

Theramenes had come to see her that morning. A member of the Order had been caught in Boeotia by the Athenians –the letter he brought was filled with dire news. The Order had taken her childhood and now sought to take her life.

"They search for the Tainted Ones," she explains. She wasn't sure what it meant exactly and neither her brother nor the old general ever explained what it meant to be one. "Hydarnes thought I was one of them. The Order must have as well because they want to kill me." An expression most akin to defeat crosses over her fair features. "They've been hunting me since I was born." _And one day they'll likely find me_.

Alexios wants to say something –to stop despair and resignation from taking over her, but he cannot find the words. Instead, he reaches over gripping onto her hand. A silent gesture that means more to the princess than words ever could.

☤☤☤

IN A RARE occasion, Alkibiades is both clothed and sober when he arrives at Irene's villa. He has come bearing gifts of wine and cheese –for there is much he wishes to discuss with the wayward princess. Athenian gossip had been rather dull as of late, even if most of it was about him.

He reclines beneath a canopy in the courtyard and cuts into a ripe fig. She leans back against the fountain, dipping a hunk of brown bread into a mixture of olive oil and herbs. "Some little birds have told me Kleon has taken an interest in you since your return," Alkibiades remarks idly.

Irene frowns, crossing her arms. "Not again." The demagogue has repeatedly shown interest in her. Often sending lavish gifts or paying to have poems written. Irene has always given away such gifts to those less fortunate and leaves the poems to burn -unread. Kleon is one of the reasons she leaves so often and remains away for so long.

"Perhaps if he saw you and the misthios together-" Alkibiades words and mind wander off. It wouldn't be a terrible sight to witness, both she and the mercenary are attractive enough. Irene shakes her head –of course, that would be the first place his thoughts go. "-though unfortunately, I doubt a standing relationship would deter the likes of Kleon."

The princess frowns -one day she hopes to see Kleon's body strung up from the city walls for the atrocities committed under his command. Perhaps then she could finally be free of his lingering shadow and unwanted attention. 

Alkibiades tires of conversation soon after the wine is gone and rises to his feet unsteadily. Irene grips onto his elbow to keep him from tumbling into the fountain. He pokes the center of her chest. "You owe me for covering the trail of bodies you left on Chios, by the way," he tells her. His little birds had told him quite the tale about the bloody path she'd carved through the Forest of Tears. The vultures and crows could feast for days on the mangled corpses of bandits left in her wake.

He is mostly self-serving, but he has always had a soft spot for Irene. Perikles's ward is perhaps the only person in all of Greece who knows the extent of her escapades. He's never considered himself a warrior, but she has always been his blade in times of crisis. In turn, he is more than willing to aid her however he can.

"Thank you, Allie," Irene says with a reserved smile, placing a chaste kiss upon his cheek. "You are a true friend."

Alkibiades's smirk is charming, if not somewhat irritating. "Only for you, sweetling," he purrs over his shoulder, sauntering off to whatever debaucheries await him at the early hour.

"Phoibe!" The princess exclaims after nearly tripping over the girl -not having seen her dart into the courtyard. 

She is unbothered and holds out a scroll, smiling. "Aspasia sent me!" Irene takes the message, breaks the beeswax seal and skims over the lines but then notices the young girl is still looking up at her –a hundred questions dancing on the tip of her tongue. The princess rolls the scroll back up and tucks it into her sash -taking a seat at the stone edge of the fountain. "How do you know Alexios?" Phoibe asks once Irene's attention returns to her.

"Ikaros decided to eat his evening meal next to me on a beach," she tells the girl. Had it not been for the golden eagle, it is likely their paths never would have crossed.

"I have a pet eagle, too," Phoibe says -pride lacing the words. "Chara, I gave her to Alexios before he left Kephallonia." The toy eagle was the only thing she had left of her parents, of Athens -until now.

Irene has seen Chara before. It the wooden eagle she has seen Alexios look at before. The one he often sat on the ship's railing so it could fly too, like Ikaros. "I've seen her. He keeps her by his side." Hearing that makes the girl smile. "Phoibe," the princess beckons her over to sit at her side on the edge of the fountain. Phoibe takes a seat and dips her hand into the cool water. "Can you do something for me?" Irene inquires.

The girl nods –always up for a new adventure. "I have suspicions about Kleon. If you notice anything strange, will you tell me?" Irene sees the glint of mischief budding in the girl's eyes –reminding her of herself at that young age and the trouble she used to get into. "But no spying," the princess warns, "I've been told you need to stay out of trouble." Irene winks with her own sly look and the girl's smile grows wider. 

Phoibe decides then she _really_ likes Irene. "Can I come back later?" She asks but is quick to amend the question. "As long Aspasia doesn't need me."

The princess nods. "Of course," Irene tells her, sending her off with a smile and a wave. 

☤☤☤


	11. Payments Owed

☤☤☤

THE _ADRESTIA _DWARFS the merchant vessels docked beside her in Piraeus's harbor. Irene finds her captain at the helm, retouching the painted map of the Aegean with blue and green pigment. "Irene!" The captain greets, rising as quickly as his aging knees will allow.

Irene looks around at the ship. Compared to others she's sailed on, it seems more likely the_ Adrestia_ will sink then stay afloat in its current state. "What was she like when you first took command?" The princess asks, running her fingertips over a splintering part of the railing.

The captain turns to look up at the Adrestia's mast. He remembers the first time he saw the ship well. She was nearly as beautiful as the _Paralus_. Her hull was plated in iron and painted in Korinthian plum and gold. A dark grey sail emblazoned with Lady Justice. Years have since passed and now bare wood shines through what little paint remains. The sea has claimed most of the iron plating, and Lady Justice has since been replaced by a fading red eagle on stained white.

"A mighty vessel!" Barnabas remarks, eyes closed in evocation. "Sure to weather any storm." Some of the Cyclops' men claimed not even Poseidon himself could sink the _Adrestia. _Barnabas was a godly man, but even he had to wonder if there was truth in the claim.

If Alexios is to sail the Aegean in search of his mother, he will need the _Adrestia_ as she once was -_mighty_. "I will sponsor any repairs or upgrades you see fit," Irene announces.

Barnabas isn't sure if the gods have taken his ability to hear -but Irene's words and expression are genuine. "You-" he stumbles over the words "-you are too generous, Irene!"

She takes both of his hands. "Consider it repayment for saving my life all those years ago." Irene knows if it had not been for his kindness, she would have never lived to see Athens. The Order would have found her and her fate would have been the same as Hydarnes. "And please," she notes with a reserved smile, "you and the crew are welcome to stay at the villa."

☤☤☤

"NO!" IRENE CRIES through laughter, unable to believe the Eagle Bearer had been disarmed and cornered by a measly smuggler. Phoibe assures her it's a true story though -and one of her favorites about the trouble Alexios used to get her out of on Kephallonia.

"He had a blade at his throat and his stomach, but the smuggler never saw the bear!" Phoibe pretends to lunge toward Irene and it sends the princess backward in another fit of laughter. She would have liked to see these stories Phoibe spoke of first hand.

"If not for a certain girl we would have never been in that situation," Alexios says with a dry chuckle, appearing from the shadows. It seems Phoibe may have left out the part where she'd been caught stealing from the wrong person -and embellished the role of the bear.

"Alexios!" The girl exclaims, jumping to her feet -her wide grin does not diminish.

Irene notices he is holding his left arm at an odd angle, out of the light. Judging by the blood on his clenched right fist, he is trying to conceal a fresh wound. A frown crosses over her countenance, but it is hidden by the time Phoibe turns her attention back to her. "Why don't we finish trading stories another time?" Irene suggests.

The girl's smile fades, displeased at the thought of leaving so soon but Alexios nods toward the villa's entrance. "Run along, Phoibe," he says. She huffs in defiance but goes without verbal protest. Alexios has never seen her listen to him so easily or quickly.

Irene rises and circles the _misthios_ proving her initial observation correct. On his upper arm is a jagged cut. "Sit," she says, pointing at the edge of the fountain. Alexios does as he's told and lets his arm fall naturally. Blood begins running down his arm again. "What happened?" She asks, dipping a strip of linen into the water, sitting at his side.

"Caught off-guard by a bounty hunter," he answers, watching as she washes out the wound. The princess raises her brow, clearly questioning _why_ he had run into another mercenary. "Sparta doesn't take kindly to people burning their war supplies." Irene rolls her eyes as she wipes away the blood -both dried and fresh- trailing down his arm. "It was an accident," he supplements but somehow she doubts it was _truly_ an accident. The Eagle Bearer seems to be a glutton for trouble and punishment.

Her fingers prod the cut. "It's not too deep," she tells him. It wouldn't need to be stitched or burned, but it does need to be cleaned and bound. She wraps the cut tightly and begins picking winterbloom and rose petals from flower boxes to grind with dried yarrow. Alexios watches her work with the faintest of smiles –there is something about being in her presence that calms him and makes it feel as if the weight on his shoulders is not so heavy.

Removing the piece of linen, Irene presses the red-tinged, fragrant paste into the bloody wound. The insistent stinging fades almost immediately and the bleeding stops. "Where'd you learn to do that?" He asks –such skill would have come in handy more than a few times in his travels.

She doesn't break focus as she begins rewrapping the strip of linen around his left bicep. "Zephyr always said medicine was in my blood," she shrugs, tying off the dressing with a small knot, "but Theophilus taught me." Theophilus had been the only physician in Athens willing to take her on as an apprentice. As a student, she worked hard and learned quickly but her pursuits in medicine were soon halted by disapproval from elder members of the elite class. Irene wipes her hands on the dark chlamys covering a peplos of fine silk.

Alexios moves his arm, pleased to feel there is no lingering pain. "A fighter and a healer," he remarks, glancing from the neatly tied bandage to her, "that's a rare combination." Irene's smile is tenuous, her cheeks florid from his plaudit.

☤☤☤

INSTEAD OF PAYMENT, the Eagle Bearer asks for information. Alkibiades is stunned by the proposition, though any surprise is quickly masked behind a taunting simper. He feigns hurt, clutching at his half-bare chest. "Are you sure you don't want to know my fancies, _misthios_?" Alexios crosses his arms, giving the lewd man a harsh glare. "Fine. Fine," he shrugs off the rejection.

Alkibiades steps back in deep thought. Perikles has proposed several matches for Irene in the past, as did Zephyr before the gods took him. Even Kleon has spent years hoping to gain Irene's hand. This mercenary is the first man outside of the Periklean Circle Irene seems to be able to tolerate. He decides to tell Alexios a few of the princess's favorite things in hopes it will make her happy.

"Seashells and pearls, sweet wines and pomegranates, poppies and roses," Alkibiades rattles off a list in quick succession. He could name more things the princess enjoys, but those were sure to win her favor -more so than luxurious gifts and insincere poems.

Alexios commits the list to memory and thanks Perikles's ward. "Most mercenaries don't concern themselves with anything other than a night," Alkibiades remarks offhandedly and stops the _misthios_ in his tracks. "Why her, Alexios?" The Eagle Bearer finds he does not have an answer to give, only the involuntary feeling in his gut and heart.

☤☤☤


	12. Pearls and Broken Spears

☤☤☤

MOONLIGHT BATHES THE white stone buildings of Athens in a silver glow though the small fires scattered around the city fight the cold light with golden warmth. Alexios finds Irene where she is nearly every evening -sitting on the open roof beneath the pergola.

"I found these while seeing to one of Perikles's tasks." It's a partial truth. He'd been on the beach opening clams and oysters for hours under the hot sun hunting the gems. Alexios places seven pearls in her palm. One is pink, another a deep grey, and the others are white as seafoam.

She turns them over in her hand and glances up -cheeks flushed with warmth. Pearls had always been one of her favorite things. As a girl she'd walk along the Ephesus shore, picking discarded pearls and sharks teeth out of the sand. Her small chest of trinkets had been left behind in Persia. "I love pearls," Irene remarks -maybe one day she will have enough to string a necklace or hairpiece.

Alexios quickly averts his eyes when her gaze shifts from the gems to him. He begins undoing the ties of his greaves and bracers. The day is drawing to a close and within the confines of the villa, he feels at ease.

Irene tells him of her life in Persia before fleeing to Athens when he asks –of learning strategy under Hydarnes and having the general be her instructor. Though the memories she is most fond of is when the old general would tell her stories beneath the stars. Irene holds those stories dear to her heart. "And what of you?" She asks in turn.

"Not much to tell," he says with a shrug and bitter tone, "my _pater_ threw me off a fucking mountain." Irene sits back, breath catching in her throat. His tale confirms what she had suspected on Samos. Before her is the boy from the mountain she had first seen in a dream so many years ago.

Alexios leans against the stone railing, crossing his arms. "I survived though and learned to look after my own." Markos had taken him under his wing, but more often than naught, there was trouble to be dealt with. Especially whenever Markos cooked up a new scheme to earn drachmae quick. _Everybody benefits_ he would say, even if Alexios walked away with more bruises and cuts than drachmae. In the end, he supposed it was all for the best –Kephallonia turned him into a survivor.

The princess picks up the broken spear at his side. "But how do you have the other half of the spear?"

He wraps his hand around the wooden shaft, fingers brushing over Irene's. A familiar jolt of energy spreads through them both. She lets go of the spear and watches as he trails his fingertips along the edge of the blade -reverent. "My _mater_'s _pater_ was Leonidas," Alexios admits.

Irene pales. He is the grandson of Leonidas. She is the granddaughter of Xerxes. "What if fate brought us together to be enemies?" There is a quiver in her voice as she asks the question. It doesn't seem right for a Persian and Spartan to be on friendly terms after what happened at Thermopylae.

Alexios cups her cheek -his hands are rough and firm. "I don't think it did," he tells her, confident they had found each other for another reason -even if it has yet to be revealed. He drags his thumb across a faint, silvery scar on her cheekbone and shakes his head with a soft smile. "Why is it so easy to talk with you?" He asks.

She laughs and unwittingly leans into his touch. "I've asked myself that too." Zephyr had instilled in her that anonymity was the best protection, to be mistrustful of people until their intentions were revealed. Few people in Athens know of her past and those that do have been sworn to secrecy by Perikles. Irene can't place exactly why she trusts Alexios, but she does.

"Alexios," she breathes, glancing down to his broken half of the spear. "The spear showed me what happened to you on the mountain. It's done so many times."

He draws in a deep breath. "Sometimes I see battles of the past." He'd never told his mother what the spear showed him, he considered it part of the burden of wielding such an ancient weapon. "But it showed me a girl on a ship more than anything."

Irene shrugs. "Many girls have been on a ship," she refutes, almost afraid to think he had been presented with visions of her as well.

Alexios shakes his head. "A girl on a ship with black hair and blue eyes holding onto a broken spear in a storm." He knows it is her -has known since he first laid eyes on her in Samos. Her eyes are unmistakable, like the stars in the way they drew him in.

For the first time in years, Irene finds she believes in the gods and fate. She knows the _misthios_ has crossed her path for a reason –even if it remains unknown. The princess leans back against a wooden post, arms crossed as she tries imagining what cruel purpose the gods have brought her and the Eagle Bearer together for. Alexios glances up at the stars and begins humming -a solemn tune that Irene has heard before but cannot place.

Irene stirs as the first rays of sun trickle through hedera growing over the pergola and finds her head is resting upon something soft and warm. _Alexios_. Her head is pillowed on his stomach, and his hand is twisted into the folds of fabric at her waist. A quick glance reveals he is still asleep, with a soft sigh, the princess closes her eyes again. 

He intends to find Myrrine. Alkibiades, Aspasia, and Euripides all spoke of a Spartan woman and people who may know more of her whereabouts. The search will take him across the Aegean. Irene craves new adventures and wants to help –having grown more fond of the _misthios_ and his companythan she cares to admit. She wants to help him. "I can help you find your mother," she tells him.

Alexios shakes his head. Danger and death pave the road forward, he couldn't —in good conscience— ask anyone to accompany him, especially her. "I couldn't ask that of you."

Irene lays her hand atop his –feels the raised scars on his fingers under her palm. "Then don't," she says with a smile. Something about the way she quirks her lips drive him mad and she doesn't even realize the effect or control she has over him with such a simple gesture. Alexios shifts closer and finds himself wondering what her lips taste of.

He will not find out on this day. The princess turns her gaze toward the Acropolis and his lips brush her cheek instead. "Sorry," he breathes, glancing away, face turning red at his foolish and impulsive action. Irene presses her hand against his chest –his heart is racing beneath her palm. Smiling, she leans toward him placing a chaste kiss upon his warm cheek.

A moment's silence passes between them as they watch Helios's golden chariot begin its march across the sky. "To Argolis?" Alexios poses, thinking it to be a better start to his search than with pirates and _hetaerae_. Irene concedes with a nod, thinking it will be good to see Hippokrates again.

☤☤☤

PHOBOS IS A magnificent beast, even so, Irene's experience with horses has left her with distaste toward them. Her own feet are more than capable of carrying her where she needs to go and when water stands in her path a ship will do. "I don't like horses," she remarks, running her hand along Phobos's mane. The beast stamps one of his hooves into the ground and snorts.

"Horses are beasts of muscle and power-" Alexios finishes tying the saddle in place on the black mount then steps in front of the princess, one dark brow raised "-you don't understand until you hold one between your thighs."

There's a flush of color on her cheeks at his clever intimation. "I know how to _ride_, Alexios," she bites back in a similar prurient manner -pulling herself up onto the saddle in a single, fluid motion to prove her point. He mounts behind her, taking hold of the reins. 

Barnabas is to meet them in Epidauros when repairs to the _Adrestia _are completed. Until then, they will have to make the journey to Argolis by horse and foot. By the day's end, Phobos has carried them past Eleusis Telesterion via the Sacred Way. Alexios pitches their small camp away from the road, beneath the canopy of two prodigious olive trees. Irene unpacks their spoils from the market at the Sanctuary of Eleusis. 

After sharing a small, simple meal, Alexios turns his gaze to Irene. She is still a mystery to him, but now, across the fire, he can see the cold determination on her delicate features. He can only surmise she has been looking for someone or something too. "You're searching for someone too," the Eagle Bearer notes. 

Irene frowns, poking the small fire with a twig. "But I shall never find him," the princess tells Alexios, desolate. "My father was Apollonides of Kos," she explains. The Greek world regards her father's name as one of ill repute, regardless of good deeds carried out by his hand. Even the physicians of Kos give no thought to his memory. All her searches have been unavailing. "No one wishes to speak of him. It's like he never existed."

☤☤☤


	13. First Do No Harm

☤☤☤

ZEUS UNLEASHES HIS wrath upon the morning sky in a flash of white light followed by the roaring crackle of thunder. In the wake of Zeus's anger, the Hyades beckon the assuaging pitter-patter of raindrops. The two somnolent travelers break and pack their small camp in the downpour.

They've ridden since daybreak through inclement weather and the approaching gates of Argos paired with slivers of blue sky are a welcome sight. They leave Phobos to rest at the gatehouse stables. "Follow me," Irene says, glancing over her shoulder. Finding Hippokrates's clinic would be easy even for a person who has never seen Argos before. All one had to do is follow those who were sick or injured.

Scores of sick and wounded -both soldiers and civilians- are waiting to be seen by Hippokrates. Others have no room in the main clinic and lay beneath tarpaulins, shielded from the wind and rain. Irene has never seen this many waiting patients before. Several novice healers tend to patients, but Hippokrates is not among them. Among the apprentices is Sostratos –he received his initial instruction under Theophilus in Athens with Irene before departing to seek greater knowledge.

A beldame is confronting Sostratos about something –her croaking voice is both hushed and raised. "Bitter old crone," Irene remarks as the Priestess of Hera leaves the clinic in haste, pushing past her and the Eagle Bearer.

The apprentice shifts his attention to Irene and Alexios, and his trepidatious expression fades, slipping back into a more aplomb composure. He maneuvers through the patients and greets Irene and her companion with a friendly smile. "Chrysis believes Hippokrates methods anger the gods and has accused him of impiety," he confides.

"We need to speak to him. Where is he?" Irene questions, looking around the crowded clinic.

"Near the Cave of Pan," Sostratos answers. Hippokrates had left several days ago to set up a clinic to treat those the Sanctuary of Asklepios had refused. Alexios and Irene exchange looks –they both know where they must go next. The princess thanks Sostratos and follows the Eagle Bearer back to the gatehouse stables.

☤☤☤

ATOP A HILL to the southwest of the Heraion of Argos people are gathered before the entrance to one of Pan's caves. Alexios pulls back on Phobos's reins as they set up the winding road –passing a throng of weary travelers. "I thought they were exaggerating when they said people came from all over to see Hippokrates," he comments. Irene glances back at him and shakes her head. She has heard stories of people traveling from Egypt to seek out the famed physician's help.

The princess stops Alexios before he can interrupt the physician's description of the sacred disease and his proposed remedy. Hippokrates does not speak of the god's ill-will, but of impoverishment -proper meals and rest can help cure those not yet beyond his ability to save. A far cry from what the priests and priestesses would tell the sick. "Challenging traditions," Alexios notes, crossing his arms, "you must be Hippokrates."

"Yes," the physician answers, vexed by the interruption. "I am also very busy."

"We won't take you away from your patients for long," Irene amends.

Upon hearing the familiar voice, Hippokrates turns from his workstation, disbelief overtakes his consternation. "Irene!" He greets. She pushes forward the wrapped parcel from the Argos clinic and he accepts the supplies and tools with an appreciative nod. "What brings you here?" He inquires. The physician knows Irene is not here for sickness. She's perhaps the only person he has ever met that has never even caught a mild case of the sniffles. Their last encounter had been by chance, and he'd stitched a wound beneath her arm closed.

Irene glances over her shoulder at the Eagle Bearer. "Alexios seeks your help."

The physician glances at the _misthios_, eyes darting over him to find signs of illness or injury -he finds none. "He doesn't look unwell," Hippokrates notes, gaze lingering on the scars wrapping around his arm. "More like one of Phidias's sculptures come to life." Irene hides a faint smile, unable to keep her eyes from straying back to Alexios –it wouldn't be hard to believe he'd been carved from marble.

"I'm looking for a Spartan woman," Alexios explains. "My mother," he's quick to add, "she would have come to you a long time ago with an injured baby. I was told you may have helped her."

Hippokrates shakes his head and turns back to his workbench. His mind is burdened with the woes of his patients, and he cannot spare the time to recall every person who had ever sought his help. "Maybe the priests at the Sanctuary can help," he suggests, eager to return to his studies and patients, "they keep detailed records of all those who pass through."

The princess steps up next to Alexios, her hand brushing against his. "We've traveled a long way to find you, friend-"

"As do my patients," he interjects. "They need me." The physician sighs, leaning forward on the wobbling wooden table. "My notes were taken," he admits, turning back to look at the _misthios._ "If you retrieve them I will help you find what you seek." An Athenian commander had taken the notes –claiming his soldiers were more important than innocent civilians. Hippokrates could remember most of what he had written, but some finer details that slipped his busy mind.

Alexios leaves in search of the physician's notes in Fort Tiryns, but Irene elects to stay with the physician and his patients. "How can I help?" She inquires. Despite her prowess for violence, the princess has a natural affinity for the art of healing and medicine. Hippokrates will not let a spare set of practiced hands be wasted.

"I need a poultice for fever," he tells her, "if you wouldn't mind lending a hand." Irene smiles and goes to work, grinding white willow, elder and yarrow together with rose oil. Kneeling, Irene smooths a portion of the paste over a patient's forehead and lays a cut fig leaf over it. Next, she goes to the child the physician is tending, repeating the same process.

"The mercenary?" Hippokrates asks, curious to know why she was traveling with such unscrupulous company.

She glances down at the fevered girl –nose red and lips cracked. _War and disease do not discriminate between the innocent and guilty. _"I want to help him find his mother," the princess avows –just because she has no family does not mean others should face the same fate. Irene lays her hand on the girl's cheek and takes a deep breath. A heavy moment of silence passes and the girl's eyes open –a mix of sage and hazel. Her small hands are no longer clammy and fever that had doomed her to an early grave recedes.

The physician sits back, astonished. "Are you Persephone?" The girl asks in a meek voice. Irene shakes her head and before she can speak a relieved mother is rushing to embrace her daughter. Irene rises and looks into her palms. Hippokrates follows her, filled with questions –though he supposes some are best left unanswered.

Alexios returns with another physician from the fort who claims to have memorized the notes before they were burned during the last battle. Their arrival comes too late for one man, but Hippokrates makes good on his promise. He tells Alexios about the night his mother came with a broken babe in her arms. He had still been young and such feats were beyond his experience. He had told Myrrine to seek help at the Sanctuary.

☤☤☤

SHE GOES TO the temple while Alexios seeks out the priests –something innate is calling her there. The temple is void of worshippers and she strides toward the statue of Asklepios, passing plinths of ailing clay body parts and painted images of serpents. Irene approaches a twisted staff held up on a pedestal at the feet of the God of Medicine. It calls to her and though the voice in her head is that of a stranger's, there is something innately familiar about it –as though she has heard it before in dreams. Iron and bronze are cast to look like a crooked branch, a single silver snake curls around the top of the staff, its eyes piercing green jewels.

Her fingertips almost brush the relic when a priest comes to stand next to her. "The Staff of Asklepios," he interposes, and Irene quickly pulls her hand back. "Last wielded by a traitor," the priest vilifies, hands clasped behind his back.

The princess glances at the grey-haired priest –brows set in a deep furrow. "Apollonides of Kos." He speaks the name like a curse and the color seeps away from Irene's face. _My father_. "They say he is who taught Hippokrates before betraying Greece for Persia."

Her gaze shifts from the priest back to the staff. "What was Apollonides like?" Irene asks. It's the first time anyone has willingly mentioned his name and it fills her with hope.

"He was-" the old priest starts but then thinks twice about revealing anything, else Chrysis will have his tongue like Mydon. They've been ordered not to speak of the traitor or to any eagle-bearing mercenaries and their accomplices. "I don't know," he says too quickly and harshly for the words to be true. Hope slips through her fingers and her heart drops to her stomach. "I never met him," the priest lies, absconding from the temple.

Dejected and alone once more, Irene steps up to the relic and wraps her hand around the staff –all initial hesitancy gone. The emerald eyes of the serpent begin to glow and a surge of power and pain wash over her –flooding her veins as a tidal wave of white heat. _Irene_.

Strange markings illuminate the back of her hands, creeping up her arms in smooth arcs and lines. _It is yours_, the voice whispers, _take it_. She relinquishes the staff with a sharp cry and stumbles before collapsing to the white marble floor, shaking. The markings fade as quickly as they appeared and emerald serpentine eyes still look down upon her, though the light in them begins fading.

Alexios finds her on the floor in the temple, clearly perturbed. He kneels next to her and lays his hand on her shoulder. There's a distant, empty look in her eyes. "Are you all right?" Irene glances at him and nods –an unconvincing gesture. "We should leave quickly," he breathes, helping her to stand. Only then does she notice the blood on his bracers and hands –none of it his own.

☤☤☤


	14. Ashes to Ashes

☤☤☤

ON A BLOODY altar at Apollo's feet is a dead eagle. A clear warning from Hera's corrupt priestess, but far from enough to dissuade the Eagle Bearer from his cause. "We must be getting close," Alexios announces. 

An infant's cry pierces the silence and Irene immediately sets off. The cries emanate from a temple not far from the forest altar. Not thinking about the possibility of a trap, she moves forward. Alexios catches a glint of dark steel in the dying light of the sun and grips onto Irene's waist and pulling her behind a tree. "Cultist guards," he whispers. Then he is gone -moving through the underbrush toward the temple with sword and spear in hand. 

_He moves like Achilles_. Distracted, the princess doesn't notice the brute until he is upon her. She twists out of the way and out of his spear's reach, then retaliates with a flurry of slashes. Yet is unable to move quickly enough to avoid being struck by the point of his _kopis_. A quick burst of white-hot pain erupts in Irene's thigh. She ducks beneath the man's arm and thrusts the broken spear through his neck, twisting the hilt until he falls to his knees -limp.

The cries of the baby grow louder. Alexios eyes' dart between the final vanguard, the temple, and Irene. She sees his hesitation and motions toward the temple. "I can handle this!" Irene tells him and the Eagle Bearer nods, darting toward the temple doors.

The princess looks up at the Cultist guard. He's at least two heads taller with dark steel armor and a heavy shield. His face hidden behind a helmet and fearsome mask molded in the visage of a bearded man. The vanguard laughs as he tosses aside his shield thinking it will be an easy fight. "I'll crush your pretty skull!" He goads, taking a lumbering stride –swinging a battleax in a wide arc.

Irene steps back then dashes forward, sliding between his legs and popping up behind him. She drops her sword and thrusts the broken spear up into the unprotected skin beneath his arm with both hands until the point pushes through flesh and cloth, rising out of his shoulder. He howls, arm falling lame and stumbles on his feet. The princess is unable to pull the spear free before he turns. She recollects her sword with a cruel smile. It's been weeks since she felt the thrill of battle rush through her veins.

The guard drops the battleax and struggles to free his sword. She dodges the first sloppy swing and ducks underneath the next, nimble as a nymph. "Stay still so I can kill you!" The brute growls. Irene stops in front of the guard, her blade lowered. When the guard lifts his arm to strike, she lunges forward -ripping the spear from under his arm in a violent spray of blood and plunges her sword into the gap between his armor and mask.

Pulling the blade back, Irene watches blood sluice down the dark steel arm. The guard claws at his open neck for only a second then falls back to the ground, unmoving. Sheathing both sword and spear, she's caught off-guard by the smell of smoke and hollow silence.

Smoke and flames spill out from the temple when she opens the doors. "Alexios?" There's a shadowy figure moving through the smoke. He exits the flames carrying the crying babe and gingerly places it in Irene's arms, his sight entirely focused in the direction Chrysis had escaped to. 

"Stay here," he utters and she nods looking down at the baby in her arms. Alexios disappears into the shadows. As Irene begins to rock the babe, its cries quiet down then stop completely when she begins humming softly. 

"My son!" A woman exclaims. The princess looks over the woman and passes the child to her, unsure if it is the right decision. "Where is Chrysis?" The woman asks, glancing around hoping to see the priestess who promised to cure her son. 

Irene frowns. "She lit the temple on fire with your son inside!" _And Alexios_. 

"Chrysis is a priestess of Hera!" The woman shrieks, clutching the babe to her breast. He had begun crying again at the raised voices. "She does what needs to be done!"

Throwing her hands up, Irene shakes her head -disbelieving. "She left your baby to burn alive!" The woman grows silent and looks down at her son, unharmed save for the scent of smoke in his swaddling. With a slow breath, the woman offers her thanks and leaves down the path she came. 

When Alexios returns Irene knows Chrysis is dead. Among the first of many Cultist that will fall on the broken spear of Leonidas. They make camp next to a stream near the burned temple. Come the morn they will return to the _Adrestia_ and continue on the journey to find his mother.

Irene rolls onto her side -back toward Alexios and tentatively touches the tender spot on her thigh. The blue linen of her _chiton_ is both stiff and damp. In the light of the stars, the princess sees blood on her fingertips.

A long shadow approaches her. "Up," Alexios says after being nigh silent since he returned.

"Not now," Irene laments, waving him away. It is late, and she is tired after a trying day that has presented more questions than answers.

"Up," he says again. Sluggish, she rises and frowns at the thick branch he places in her hands. Alexios knows Irene is a capable fighter -but she relies too heavily on the shadows. "Stealth will not always be your ally," he tells her, swinging his branch toward her torso. 

Irene parries his first strike and circles away from him, keeping her mock-sword in motion -continually changing her guard and stance the way Hydarnes had taught her. Alexios slashes down at her head and she counters -raising the stick high and striking horizontally. Her blow offsets his and the edge of the stick scrapes against his cheek.

She thrusts the stick toward his throat, the same way she would've her spear. Alexios catches the stick, pulls it from her grasp and uses them both to knock her to the ground. The princess glares at him_. You fall, you die_. Knocking away his hand, she stands with renewed vigor. This time their movements are more akin to a dance. Each striking and gliding out of the way but the match ends no better. After landing a blow to Alexios's shoulder, he trips Irene and is quick to place the stick at her chest. A killing blow.

When Irene rises again, it's clear she is irritated. Her movements carry more force and come faster. He sidesteps a swing but doesn't anticipate her sleight of hand. The stick cracks against his side. Alexios drops down to one knee with a grunt and turns -the stick _thwacks _against Irene's thigh -striking the same place the cultist guard had. Her concentration falters at the burst of pain, and Alexios knocks her to the ground with his shoulder.

She looks up at him, chest heaving and sweat beading on her brow. "I've killed you thrice now," he says, pointing the stick at her throat. Irene lashes out in frustration, throwing him off balance and flat onto the ground. She leaps at the opportunity and twists his arm backward, pinning his head between her thighs in a vise grip. Alexios struggles, taken aback. "Point taken," he gasps, gripping onto her upper thigh with his free hand -something warm coats his fingers.

She lets him up then pulls her knees up to her chest. "I'm not opposed to sparring," she tells him, "just not tonight."

He holds his hand up for both of them to see in the dim firelight. Blood coats his fingertips and when Alexios looks over her he sees the blood trickling down her leg. "_Malákas_," he curses, "you're hurt."

"I'm fine," Irene grits out, hiding the stained patch of linen with her arm. She'd managed with far worse wounds before. 

Alexios shakes his head and moves closer to her, he feels guilty for not realizing she'd been injured sooner. "I don't understand why those gifted in healing ignore themselves," he muses. Every physician he's ever come across shows selflessness on the verge of self-neglect. Irene almost laughs at how true his observation is. She stretches out her leg and pulls the hem of the _chiton_ up past the injury. It's a small gash struggling to scab over.

Shivers creep down her spine when his fingers brush over her heated skin -damp cloth wiping away dried and fresh blood alike. She disguises the involuntary shudder as a wince and doesn't understand why every time they touch it feels like her body in burning from within. "Sorry," Alexios breaths, thinking the calluses on his rough hands are the cause of her discomfort.

"No," the princess lies, "it's not you."

He takes the clean strip of linen binding his sister's baby blanket and places it over the cut, gently wrapping it around her thigh. It is the least he can do after she'd treated his wounds in Athens so diligently. "How about we make a deal?" Alexios proposes, hand still lingering on her thigh. "We won't hide injuries from one another."

Irene searches his face, finding herself drawn to his eyes -they reflect the warmth of the fire and are flecked with gold. "Deal," she concedes. 

☤☤☤

IN THE DISTANCE a pirate ship is aflame and sharks feast before the Aegean can claim the corpses and vessel. The Eagle Bearer's crew had made short work of the would-be robbers and now he stood back at the helm of the _Adrestia_ polishing off the blood staining the blade of his sword and spear.

"He fights like a demon dressed as a man! Like Achilles himself!" Barnabas exclaims and the crew chants his name. Rumors were quickly spreading across the Grecian mainland and islands of the _misthios_ with an eagle and broken spear. _A legendary warrior_ many said. Others claim he is a demigod or descended from ancient heroes. 

Alexios shakes his head and glimpses Irene from the corner of his eye -sharpening the edge of a dagger. He's found something far more impressive. "But have you ever met a _princess_ with a body count, Barnabas?" Alexios realizes his mistake as soon as the word leaves his lips. When he turns, Irene is standing behind him, arms crossed and face twisted with anger. 

Barnabas glances between her and the commander and understanding dawns on him. "_Princess_!" He cries in surprise, never thinking his old ship would see a royal seafarer. Though now that the captain looks over her again, he can make out the features of Persian nobility. Barnabas stoops down in obeisance and Irene's cheeks grow hot. The other lieutenants and crew members look up at her with wide eyes, their mouths agape.

"Sorry," Alexios mutters, hand nervously rubbing at the skin on the back of his neck. He feels like a fool. She accepts his apology with a curt nod, but still storms off to the opposite end of the ship.

Herodotus is only amused by the scene unfolding. He had been among the first to discern her lineage –before even Perikles would ever confide such a secret in others. People whispered she bore an uncanny likeness to the Persian princess, Amytis –taken before her time– and with good reason. "Her mother was Amytis of Persia," the historian explains, though the historian does not know of Irene's father save rumors.

"By the gods," Barnabas exclaims, still in disbelief, "I saved a princess!"

Alexios gives Irene time to herself before he steps up next to her –still plagued with the guilt of letting a secret like hers slip past his lips so carelessly. He opens his mouth to apologize again, but Irene is quick to avoid the topic. Apologies can not bring back anonymity, no matter how sincere they are. "You say this Xenia is a pirate?" She inquires. 

He nods, crossing his arms. "That is what Aspasia told me."

Irene thinks she remembers Aspasia mentioning Xenia before, but she cannot recall for what purpose. The pirate general commanded a fleet of ships from Keos. She turns to Alexios. "I don't think she'll take kindly if we accidentally sink one of her ships." The princess can only hope the bireme they encountered earlier did not belong to this Xenia. 

☤☤☤


	15. The Hospitality of Pirates

☤☤☤

POSEIDON HAS BESTOWED them with a calm night at sea. The breeze is gentle and warm. Filling the sails to aid their journey to Keos. The water is dark and tranquil, save for the rise and fall of the tides. Everyone aboard the _Adrestia_ are enjoying the quiet, but Alexios is restless. It's like he isn't sure what to do with himself in moments of peace anymore. Even Barnabas and the historian have taken a reprieve from the helm for the night.

The Eagle Bearer glances over his shoulder at the princess. Her bronze-scaled linothorax is tossed aside, lying next to his dark leather cuirass. White linen is still wrapped around her thigh, exposed by the way her Athenian blue _chiton_ rides up. She's asleep or resting her eyes -he's unsure which it is, but he goes to her out of impulse.

Alexios crouches next to her and lays his hand on her shoulder –whispering her name. "_Fuck_," she breathes, rolling onto her side. A moment later one of her eyes opens -sparkling like storm clouds right before lightning strikes- and focuses on the person who'd disrupted her blissful dream.

He smiles, and Irene supposes there are worst sights to look upon after being woken. "You've got a foul mouth, _princess_," he notes, teasing.

She glares at him. _You shouldn't curse so much_ Zephyr used to say, she'd never taken that advice. Few things could provide instant satisfaction like a well-timed curse. "And you've got a foul scent, _misthios_," Irene bites back, propping her head up.

His smile falters -caught off guard by how quickly she utters the sharp response. "You speak to anyone like that?" Alexios asks, imagining certain people wouldn't take kindly to being insulted in such a manner. He's earned more than a few bloody noses and black eyes for not biting his tongue.

Irene sits up and stretches, lifting her arms out and above her head. "Believe me," she says, breath catching when her back pops, "this silvertongue has gotten me into and out of a lot of trouble."

A concupiscent glint appears in his eyes -dark and warm like cinnamon. Alexios smirks. "Is that all it can do?" Irene rolls her eyes and pushes him off-balance. He falls back to the deck, laughing softly.

"So why did you disturb my slumber?" She asks, crossing her arms. He doesn't say anything, only rises from the deck and motions for her to follow. The princess follows him to the bow of the _Adrestia_. 

"What are you doing?" Irene bids as he steps over the prow of the ship and slides down onto the gilded ram. "You're mad!" She hisses, trying not to wake everyone aboard the ship. Alexios ignores her. Once he balances himself, he turns and extends his hand toward her. Against better judgment, Irene places her hand in his.

Alexios steadies her as the ram dips below the water's surface and Irene extends her arms out like wings -feeling the salt spray kiss her palms. Before her is only open water, shining silver with the Moon's reflection. No land in sight, nor another vessel. Among the sea's powers is the ability to make even the bravest of warriors feel small. The princess closes her eyes, succumbing to her reverie.

"Feels like you're flying doesn't it?" Only after he speaks does Irene realize how close they are –his chest, sans armor, is flush against her back, strong hands are holding her onto her waist, his warm breath hitting her neck. She shivers despite the warm and humid air.

☤☤☤

KEOS, LESTRIS, AND Seriphos form the triad known as the Pirate Islands. In all her travels, Irene has never lingered near them for longer than needed. The rumors surrounding how Koressia came to be under pirate control were enough to even make veteran sailors bristle with discomfort. Clear, turquoise waters give Keos the veneer of paradise. After docking in Poiessa though, the stench of death becomes apparent and Irene realizes every rumor ever told about the pirates of Keos was true.

Phobos stops on a hill overlooking the burnt city of Koressia, though the temple dedicated to Athena remains unscathed save for the black banners hanging from scaffolds. Alexios dismounts Phobos and looks up at the princess still astride the blood bay stallion. She'd offered to go with him to meet Xenia, but he insists on going alone. This quest was his burden no matter how willing she was to help shoulder the weight.

He ties his sword, bow, and quiver to Phobos' saddle blanket, but secures the broken spear to his back with a rope baldric. He's not foolish enough to march into a pirate settlement completely unarmed. "I'll meet you back at the _Adrestia_," he tells her, setting off along a narrow, winding path downward. Irene waits until he is out of sight before taking up the reins and turning Phobos back toward Poiessa.

Alexios returns as the final supplies are being loaded below deck. Barnabas is eager to put the Pirate Islands behind him. Irene learns it had been off the northern coast of Keos where his ship had sunk, stranding him and his beloved Leda -claiming his right eye too. As if that hadn't been enough, they washed up on a white sand beach greeted at spear and knifepoint by the malákes.

By sunset they leave port again, charting a course to Korinthia to follow Alkibiades lead with the _hetaera_. Xenia provided the information Alexios seeks for a price and provides the opportunity to hunt the Golden Feather of Ajax should he wish to earn the fee back. Barnabas, Herodotus, Irene, and Alexios sit and the small fire at the stern of the ship, sharing a sweet Samian wine. 

"My mother!" The Eagle Bearer exclaims as Irene passes a kylix of watered wine to him. "A pirate!" A piece of him wonders if Xenia had told the truth, but the fondness in the pirate queen's voice tells him she had.

"She sounds like quite a woman," Irene remarks, shifting closer to both the fire and Alexios. Daughter of King Leonidas, fugitive of Sparta and pirate -the list of monikers for Myrrine may very well grow longer before he is reunited with his mother. 

☤☤☤

TELLIA GROANS, THREE fingers on her draw hand are mangled after fending off a pirate _trireme _and _pentekonter_. Irene prepares a cataplasm of aloe and symphis for after the procedure and checks the dagger placed in the brazier. It is not ready yet. She kneels next to the archer and presents an anodyne of hemlock and violet mixed with watered wine -for pain. Tellia downs the bitter drink, tossing the silver cup aside and takes a strip of leather between her teeth.

Irene binds Tellia's forefinger and thumb together -they were not maimed as the others. Flesh hangs from bone and blood puddles beneath her hand. The smallest finger must be removed completely, but the other two can be salvaged below the first knuckle. The princess checks the dagger again, this time the iron blade is glowing red. Mikythos kneels, having agreed to assist, and grips onto the hilt of the cautery.

The archer screams to the heavens when Irene brings down the edge of a freshly sharpened knife, severing the smallest finger. Before she screams again, the other two mangled extremities are gone too. Mikythos presses the flat of the glowing blade against the bloody stumps. Tellia's eyes go wide before she faints against the mast.

Pleased with how the wounds sealed, Irene thanks Mikythos for his assistance and bids him discard the amputated fingers. She washes away the blood and cleans the burns before applying the cataplasm and wrapping Tellia's disfigured hand with linen. She wouldn't draw a bow again, but she could learn to wield a sword and shield.

Despite the slim cut on her cheek and arm, the princess insists on tending to others -it's in her nature. Though she is skilled with a blade and has sent more than a handful of people to the Gates of Hades, there's an innate desire deep in her being to help others. By the time she cleans and binds the wounds of both rowers and warriors, it has grown late. She retires beneath the bowpost, stretching out aching limbs. Soon after, Alexios joins her. "You're unscathed?" Irene asks, raising a dark brow at the blood still staining his cuirass.

He nods and a smirk crosses his lips. "I am the Eagle Bearer," Alexios remarks, tone cocksure and goading as though that title alone makes him untouchable. She rolls her eyes, leaning forward to loosen the ties of her dented greaves -one of the strips of cloth has slipped into a tight knot. His fingers brush over hers, breaking her focus as he deftly pulls on the tie and forcing the knot to come loose. Irene pushes back her hair, tucking dark strands behind her ear. "You have my thanks for helping the crew," Alexios tells her, his smile genuine. 

Irene settles back into the alcove. "Well, you better hope we don't run into many more pirates on the way to Korinth. I don't have many herbs left." She'd used the last of the hemlock to help ease Tellia's pain, even her store of dry fennel was nearly gone. Alexios leans back next to Irene and crosses his arms. Gaze quickly darting from her to the sky where the last light of the sun is slipping away beneath the dark horizon. 

"Trouble has a nasty habit of following me," he tells her. The princess lets a dry chuckle pass through her lips -trouble follows her too and in that aspect, perhaps they are a match made by the gods.

☤☤☤


	16. Land of Beautiful Corruption

☤ ☤ ☤

IRENE EMPTIES HER bag, checking over its contents again since they had stopped at Skandeia Harbor in Kythera. A bronze box packed with dry tinder and kindling. A flint and iron. Fish hooks and animal gut for stitching wounds. Various medicinal herbs –honey, sorrel leaves, yarrow and seeds from the poppy. A roll of linen bandages, needles and hemp thread, and a small iron for cauterizing wounds. Before her is the difference between life and death.

The _Adrestia_ docks in Korinthia after many days at sea. Korinth is a city rank with corruption even under Spartan law. Whispers say the Monger –a brute with lust for violence– controls the city with terror and blood. Others tell them Anthousa and her _hetaerae_ are the true leaders but are stranded at the Spring of Peirene near the Temple of Aphrodite on the Akrokorinth, having fled the city for fear of the Monger and his thugs.

Regardless of who the city's true leader is, Alexios turns his gaze toward the Akrokorinth –that is where he will find answers about his mother. Irene adjusts her _loculus_ after having stopped at an apothecary to purchase silphium and oak gall. The short pause in their pace had allowed Alexios to scan over the vendors and shoppers –what he sees brings a deep frown to his lips. "We're being followed," Alexios notes in a hushed voice, eyes darting around the busy _agora_.

Irene has felt the lingering gaze of strangers too. She's been at unease since stepping off the _Adrestia_. "Hunted, more like," she amends, stepping closer to the _misthios_ –their arms brush together with each step. A lifetime of being hunted has made her senses keen enough to spot those who wished to go unseen. "Two on our right," the princess mutters.

"At least three behind us and another to the left," Alexios supplements, slowing to almost a stop. If they continued on their current path the men following them would decide to strike or move forward to set a trap. "Get to the temple," he tells Irene. Only a fool would attempt spilling blood in Apollo's temple with Spartan sentries keeping vigil. "I'll fall back and see exactly how many there are." A jerky movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. Their pursuants are quickly closing in. Alexios grips onto Irene's wrist. "Cause a scene," he breathes.

The princess twists around, glaring at him with brows pinched together. "Why do I have to be the one to make a scene?!" She challenges in a low hiss. Though seconds later her expression shifts to heartbreak and betrayal –the effortless transformation can put even the best actors to shame. "How could you?! You swine!"

Irene's arm rears back and then her hand is connecting with his cheek. Alexios has no time to react and the slap echoes through the crowded _agora_. He stumbles at the sudden and unexpected impact. People stop and stare at the commotion. Those meant to be pursuing them are thrown off by the spectacle. "I loved you!" Irene cries, hiding her tearful gaze as she absconds the market toward the Temple of Apollo.

"Wait!" Alexios shouts, cheek burning with the aftermath of her touch. He gives pursuit but once she climbs the _crepidoma_ of the temple, he slips into the crowd. The men all gather at a warehouse on the western docks. Guards standing at the entrance are neither Spartan or Athenian –but are more akin to bandits. After seeing their meeting location, Alexios turns back toward the heart of Korinth.

Spartan sentries give him wary glances as he climbs the Temple steps. Mercenaries weren't known for their piety. He kneels before the statue of Apollo at the center of the _noas_. "That worked surprisingly well," he remarks, humor lacing his tone. She'd played the part well and had saved them from a confrontation in the streets.

Irene glances at him and frowns –there's a red mark on his cheek the same size as her hand. She aligns her fingers with the welt and feels guilty for not warning him about her intentions. "I didn't mean to hit you that hard," the princess admits with a grimace. Alexios turns his cheek farther into her hand, a faint smile pulling at his lips. Her fingers unintentionally slip upward, following the scar below his left eyes.

Shouting from one of the sentries breaks them both from the trance. Irene pulls her hand away and glances around the temple to avoid meeting his gaze. "How many?" She asks.

"Nine," he answers, "they're at a warehouse near the docks." The princess glances at him -her deep blue eyes have gone cold with determination. Sooner or later they would have to confront those men. Irene would prefer it be sooner.

☤ ☤ ☤

IT IS NOT Anthousa who Irene and Alexios come across upon initially arriving at the Akrokorinth, but Alkibiades. By pure luck, he had decided to sojourn there and visit his muses. Athens had been a mess as of late with Kleon continually stirring the mob and publically dissenting against Perikles' will. Irene suspects a courtesan visit is not the only reason he has come to the land of beautiful corruption.

Her suspicions are proven correct when he asks Alexios to bring a parcel to the Spartan named Diodoros at the fort. "I'll deliver it," Alexios says, taking the wooden box. 

"Do handle it with care and discretion, misthios," Alkibiades remarks. The two old friends watch him leave on the errand. So long as the Eagle Bearer sticks to the shadows of Akrokorinth Fort, it will not be a hard task to complete. Allie tugs on a lock of Irene's black hair. "I do hope Diodoros enjoys that," he muses after Alexios is out of sight, twirling the same lock around his finger, "-it took me several times to cast one that truly matched my likeness."

Irene scoffs, rolling her eyes. He's done something similar to this before, though he had not gotten the results he'd wished for when the messenger slipped up and said the delivery was from him and not Hylios. She had to take care of the angered general after that in such a manner that it looked as though the gods had struck him down by chance. "I could cast one for you if you'd like," Alkibiades proposes with a sybaritic tone.

"What is Alexios like?" He finally asks -it's a question he's been dying to know the answer to since laying eyes on the _misthios_ at Perikles' Symposium.

Had anyone else asked the question, the princess would have answered honestly. _He's a good person, quick to anger but quicker to laugh_. But this is Alkibiades and there only ever seems to be one thing on his debauched mind when speaking outside of political matters. Irene's cheeks flush. "You have no sense of decorum!" She accuses, crossing her arms.

"Guilty," he replies. "Now answer the question. You've sailed across the Aegean with him. I know you must have had a taste of his _spear_." Her cheeks burn bright red under his scrutinizing gaze -and the thoughts that begin to slip into her mind. "I hear Spartans know how to wield them best," he adds with a titillating smile.

"Allie!" Irene scolds. She's never been one to speak openly of such private affairs. And even if she _had_ been with Alexios, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing those intimate details.

"But you have thought about it haven't you?" He goads, nudging her playfully.

Between the hesitation and the way her eyes widen, Alkibiades has his answer. His smirk is infuriating. "You're unconscionable," Irene grumbles, "asking a woman of her sex life, sending the Eagle Bearer to deliver a cast of your cock to some poor man."

Alkibiades shrugs and takes the hand of one the priestesses leaving the Temple of Aphrodite -it was time he made an offering to the Goddess of Love. "Life's more interesting that way, my sweetling." He winks at the princess before turning his attention to the _hetaera_.

Irene turns away from the temple and faces the Gulf of Korinth. The sweeping vista as the light of day fades into the west is a glorious sight to behold. Korinthia truly was one of the most beautiful places in the Greek world. A full moon rises over the water and the city below takes on a cold glow.

There's a tug at the edge of her _chiton_ -she glances down and is surprised to see a familiar young face looking up at her. "Phoibe?" The girl grins. "What are doing here?" Irene asks. Korinth was no place for a child to be running about if rumors circulating the city were true.

"Aspasia sent me as an-" Phoibe pauses and thinks hard about how to say the right word "-an emissary."

The princess isn't sure she likes the idea of Aspasia using the girl for her political gains, but Phoibe seems happy with her mission and appears well looked after. "Does Alexios know?" Irene inquires. Phoibe's eyes light up at the mention of the _misthios_. 

"Do I know what?" A deep voice asks from behind a stone column. Phoibe turns from Irene and races toward the Eagle Bearer, launching herself into his arms. The impact causes him to stumble back, falling against the steps of the temple. "It's good to see you too, Phoibe," he laughs. As Irene looks upon the sight, something stirs deep in her chest, though she cannot place what it is.

☤ ☤ ☤


	17. Fire and Flames

☤☤☤

THE NEXT TWO days pass in a blur. Irene isn't sure how she'd found herself fighting rogues in a burning warehouse with Alexios and a Spartan after chasing Phoibe through the streets, but the flames lick at her skin and fire rages in her blood. She ducks beneath the swing of a two-handed axe and lurches forward, cutting deep into the man's thigh. The howls of pain are silenced when Alexios drags the point of his _kopis_ across the man's throat in a tight slash.

She rises with blood spattered across her face -chest heaving, eyes wrought with harsh obduracy. Alexios' gaze lingers on the princess for just a second too long and he doesn't notice the assailant approaching him from behind -sword raised. Irene darts forward, uses the dead man's body as leverage, launching herself into the air over the Eagle Bearer's shoulder. She bears down upon the man with the broken spear, driving it through his neck. Lidless eyes reflect the glow of the inferno.

Something slams into her side before she can rise -sending her backward into a burning post. Scrambling to her hands and knees, Irene sees a discarded shield and rolls toward it. Bones rattle at the impact of a heavy sword against the metal. She drives her attacker back and regains her footing -wielding both sword and shield.

The second blow to the shield reverberates through her arm. She sweeps the shield wide, opening her foe's defenses and plunges her sword deep into the man's belly, wrenching it free in a spray of blood. She snarls, kicking the collapsing corpse away and tossing the shield aside. It only slowed her down.

Smoke begins to burn her eyes and scratch her throat. Through the flames, she sees the Spartan -fending off two men. He doesn't see the third. Irene recovers her broken spear from a corpse and throws it with all her might. As the Spartan turns to face the man, he is already falling backward -the hilt of a broken spear rising from his eye.

The Spartan gives her a curt nod, before turning his focus to the last rogue. Alexios already as his attention on the same man. The princess retrieves the spear. It comes free from the corpse's skull with a soft squelch and pulls his burst eye out of socket, too. Planks creak above, it won't be much longer before the half-rotten wood collapses and the roof caves in on them.

Night air floods the warehouse. It is cool by comparison -but only for a moment before it makes the flames grow larger and hotter. Irene returns to one of the civilians that'd been too weak to leave of his own volition. He drapes his arm over her shoulders and tries his best to push forward as she pulls him from the burning warehouse.

Alexios and the Spartan are dispatching the rogues that'd been waiting outside the flames. Irene eases the elderly man to the ground against a stack of crates. His gaze is empty and unfocused -eyes fogged over. He raises a withered hand, trembling, and reaches toward the princess. The tips of his fingers brush her bloodied cheek. "The gods will bless you," he cries and it almost sounds prophetic. 

☤☤☤

IRENE SHAKES THE water from her hands and looks up at the Eagle Bearer. There's a fresh cut above his left eye that hadn't been there when she'd last looked at him in the flames. "Why are you bleeding?" The question doesn't come out the way she'd intended, but a mix of _what happened_ and _you're bleeding_.

Alexios lowers himself onto the dock after sheathing his sword with a dry chuckle. "Misstep on my part," he says, brushing two fingers over the cut above his brow. Blood trickles down his face in a rivulet and comes away on his fingertips, but he isn't concerned. It's minor -a scratch compared to injuries he's had in the past.

The Spartan, Brasidas, has already left to return to his camp. Much like Anthousa, he has plans for the Monger too, though they differ from the hetaeras. Brasidas wishes to lure the brute into the sacred cave and do away him without spectacle to spare civilians from the anarchy that could follow a public execution.

Either way, Korinth would be free of his reign of terror. Her gaze lingers on Alexios as he washes away the blood. "What do you think should be done about the Monger?" Irene asks -she's already made her choice but is curious who he will side with.

His jaw clenches. "If I were in Anthousa's place I'd want the satisfaction of seeing his head mounted outside the theater, but I think Brasidas is right," Alexios announces, "the less bloodshed the better." Irene nods, it is good to know they both agree on the task at hand.

☤☤☤

IRENE GLARES AT him from across the fire. Alexios is sharpening the blade of a newly acquired labrys. She isn't so lucky to have come across treasure, only a room full of soldiers. "Sneak into the fort, you said," she grouses, trying to reach the bloody scratch on the back of her shoulder. "It'll be fun," she mocks.

He smiles a small smile. His lips twitch like he's trying not to laugh. The Eagle Bearer sets aside the labrys and whetstone, his eyes soften as they trail over her. "Come here, princess."

She offers him a harsh glare. "Princess?"

Alexios shrugs, going to her instead. "Well, you _are_ a princess," he reminds her. She only scowls. He pushes her hair away and unclasps another pin on her shoulder, baring the full length of the slim cut. The blade must have slipped beneath her linothorax cuirass. Taking the damp cloth from Irene, he lays it over the scratch and finds his attention drawn to the scar running upward beneath her left arm.

His fingertips brush over the raised scar of their own accord. Irene's breath hitches and tiny sparks emanate from his touch, racing all over her body. She shifts -not fully turning to face him, though she can see the silent question in his gaze. Lifting her arm, she exposes the full length of the scar curving around from her back to just below her breast. "A mercenary intended to collect the bounty on my head while I slept," Irene explains.

She'd been in Argolis delivering news to Hippokrates and taking care of a group of bandits causing trouble for one of Alkibiades' friends. The blade had been quick, but the princess was quicker. Euterpe the Snake's dagger had missed its true mark and Irene had buried her spear deep into the mercenary's neck. By the time she arrived at the clinic in Argos to find the physician, she was drenched in blood and sweat. It's the closest she's come to meeting Hades.

A look of deep contemplation furrows Alexios' brows as he wipes away the dried blood on her back. He offers to wrap the slim cut, but it no longer bleeds and Irene wishes to save the bandages for more pressing needs and grievous injuries. Righting her_ chiton_, the princess turns toward the fire.

"Alexios." Irene takes his hand and traces over the pale scar running across his palm -it's more recent than the ones wrapping around his arm. She'd felt the raised mark against her skin while he tended her minor injuries. "This scar," she begins, "how'd you get it?"

He looks down at the scar -and how small Irene's hand is in comparison to his own. "When I snuck into the Cult's meeting in Delphi, one of the Cultist was collecting offerings for the bloodline," Alexios pauses, "I offered my blood so it wouldn't raise suspicions."

Since meeting the Persian princess on the shores of Samos, Alexios has slowly begun learning her many expressions and what they mean. For instance, the way her lips are pursed and dipping downward and the soft wrinkle in her brow are a good indicator she is deep in thought about something. "What is it?" He asks.

"Hermippos bears the same scar," she tells him, "I've seen him with his hand wrapped many times too." Far too often for a just playwright and given his disposition against Perikles, part of her doubts it is merely a coincidence.

Before the morning comes the fire turns into a pile of ash and the chill of autumn lingers in the air. Alexios pokes the pile of ash with a stick and a flame jumps up then dies out. The brief flash of light is enough for him to see Irene curled into herself, shuddering. He rises, moving his thin bedroll next to hers. The princess shifts, rolling toward him -his warmth a magnet.

☤☤☤

WORD PASSES AROUND the streets quickly of what had occurred at the Monger's warehouse in the Port of Lechaion. Whispers rise that he is making his way back to Korinth from Epidauros to face whoever had disrupted his dealings. Even with haste, it is a two-day journey and until the Monger arrives, Alexios wears the moniker of a _misthios_ again.

By the day's end, he's secured two small pouches of drachmae and Irene has given away twice that much of her coin to those in need on the streets. Korinth is not a kind city and such help does not come often, but when it does -the people are indebted with gratitude.

Stars are veiled by thick, low hanging clouds shroud the countryside just outside the city walls in darkness. Flames cast long shadows in the ruins of an old temple next to a spring -bubbling with fresh water.

"Honestly, how do you even find a helmet to fit your inflated head?" The princess inquires, wringing water from her pitch hair. Alexios won't admit it, but he enjoys their banter. Some things he does just to get a rise out of her. Most of the time it works well enough -though he had not meant to provoke her scrutiny earlier in the day. "_Well, luckily for you I am one_," Irene says, puffing out her chest and trying her best to imitate the timbre of his voice. "I mean who says that?"

Alexios leans back against the felled stone column, trying his best to hide a smile as Irene paces back-and-forth. "Just because you have the body of a god doesn't make you one," she snaps without thinking -her cheeks turn burn bright red upon realizing what she'd said aloud.

He sits up straighter and has the audacity to smirk. "You think I have the body of a god?"

Irene grumbles and turns her back to him and the fire. "Forget I said that," she says over her shoulder, wrapping herself in a pale yellow wool blanket, "good night." Alexios shakes his head, smiling, then glances up and finds Ikaros hovering above them, keeping vigilance. 

☤☤☤


	18. Revelations and Ill-Tidings

☤☤☤

THE MONGER ARRIVES in Korinth in a spectacle of violence. He and his men cut down a score of Spartan soldiers —Brasidas' men. Shortly after the massacre, a little bird finds the Eagle Bearer and princess to tell them the Monger awaits in the Sacred Cave, ready put an end to their irritant actions and regain a firm grip on the city and its people.

Phoibe joins them at the entrance of the cave near Temple of Apollo, much to Alexios' displeasure. He kneels in front of the girl and makes her swear she will not follow him into the dark depths. It wouldn't be safe. Alexios rises and turns to Irene. She's preparing herself for a fight, it's evident in the stony gaze that's turned the ocean of her eyes into a storm.

He looks between her and the girl, vexed. The princess sees it then, the deep-seated trepidation in his dark eyes that Phoibe won't listen. "I'll stay with her," Irene offers and the unease immediately fades. Alexios nods then steps back, unsheathing the spear on his back before disappearing into the mouth of the cave.

"You don't have to babysit me," Phoibe laments, crossing her arms. Alexios never let her have _any_ fun. "I would have listened," she says kicking a pebble into a puddle.

Irene laughs, rolling her eyes. "Given your history, I find that unlikely." Not even three ago the girl had run off after Alexios under Irene's watch and found her way into the Monger's sex _andron_. Phoibe had a penchant for getting herself into trouble. The princess watches the girl pace back and forth, pouting. It's like looking into the past. She'd behaved the same way when Zephyr wouldn't let her join him for business affairs.

High above a bird cries out. Phoibe and Irene both look up to see Ikaros diving toward them. An arrow whistles past the princess's ear. She turns to see three of the Monger's men stalking toward them —two brutes and an archer. Irene pulls her sword and broken spear free, stepping in front of the girl. "Stay behind me, Phoibe," she says -voice low and dangerous.

Ikaros hovers over the archer, pecking the man and clawing at his eyes. "Get this fucking bird off me!" He cries, blood running down his face from the eagle's assault. The two brutes ignore the archer and tighten their grips on heavy spiked maces. They both swing at the same time. Irene bends backward and flips out of range in a single, fluid motion.

"Hold still you little _skeela_," one says in a grating voice. Irene ducks under the mace again and dives forward, thrusting the point of the spear deep into the man's thigh. He lets out a piercing howl of pain and drops his mace, stumbling back. Ikaros still harasses the archer —he can't even draw another arrow or blade elsewise the eagle will take his eyes.

The princess slips past the second brute and plunges her sword into the archer's back, cutting through his soft linen armor -the blade emerges from his stomach, painted red. Ikaros rises into the air again. Irene kicks the corpse away and recovers his bow and quiver. She nocks and draws the satin string back, aiming at the brute struggling to pull the broken spear from his leg. The arrows sings, cutting through the air then embeds in his skull with a _thwack_.

Irene doesn't move out of the way quickly enough when the last of the Monger's men charges her. She hits the ground hard and gasps for breath. The brute steps over her, raising his mace overhead for a killing blow. Her hand is still curled around an arrow, the bow near her foot. The princess kicks up the bow and draws back on the string, pushing against the olive wood with her sandal. The arrow finds its mark -hitting the brute in the neck. She rolls out of the way as he falls forward.

Phoibe looks around at the carnage with wide eyes -she's only ever seen Alexios move like that. Irene stands, brushing the dirt from her arms. She picks up her sword, wiping the blood on the archer's clothes and goes to retrieve her spear from the dead brute's leg. When Irene turns back to the entrance of the cave, the girl is gone. "Phoibe!" She catches a sliver of the girl's pale _chiton_ disappearing into the darkness. "_Malaká_," the princess curses, giving chase.

Anthousa is in the cave, looking down at the Monger's corpse next to Alexios. The _hetaera_ glances over her shoulder at the echoing footfalls and sees Irene and Phoibe emerge into the dimly lit room. "We'll talk about your mother, Alexios. Just not here," she says, "meet me back at the Spring of Peirene."

☤☤☤

IRENE STOPS AT the message board of Korinth after departing from the Akrokorinth and tears down two pieces of papyrus detailing contracts on her and Alexios' heads for their activities at the Akrokorinth fort. "This is not good," she remarks, passing the crumbled paper to him_._

_"Malakás_," he swears, balling up both contracts and throwing them into a lit brazier. Bounty hunters made life difficult -always showing up at the most inopportune moments, like now.

"You!" A sonorous voice calls over the people in the streets. It was another _misthios_. "I've come to collect the bounty on your heads."

"Fuck," Alexios spits, readying himself for another fight, but Irene grips onto his arm, dragging him through a crowd and between two stalls in the _agora_. It's by sheer luck she recognizes one of the vendors is from Athens. "Demetria!" She cries.

The merchant looks around upon hearing her name and sees one of her loyal patrons racing toward her fabric stall. Demetria has known Irene long enough to know when she is in trouble. "Artemis?" She asks and the princess nods, out of breath, motioning toward Alexios. The princess can go unseen better than the Eagle Bearer.

Irene grabs a drab brown _chlamys_ and throws it over Alexios's head to conceal his armor. "What are you doing?" He asks -not understanding how _this_ was supposed to help avoid the mercenary on their heels. She frees his end of the broken spear and passes it to Demetria, who slips it beneath reams of fabric. The merchant nods for them to go -their belongings are in safe hands.

"Irene, I don't see how this is going-" the princess clamps her hand over his mouth, she can see the mercenary over his shoulder searching for them. "Kiss me," she utters. Alexios stares at her, brows furrowed, mouth agape —unsure if he is hearing her correctly. He takes too long to act. Irene surges forward, taking his face into her hands and presses her lips against his —it feels _right_.

His hands fall to her hips out of instinct, drawing her closer. She tastes of honey and wine and feels soft as silk. Sweeter and softer than he thought possible. For the moment he forgets about the mercenary hunting them, about the war, about everything that isn't Irene. Her hands slip into the matted hair at the back of his neck. She pulls away, breathless and immediately scans the crowd over his shoulder, but the mercenary is still searching for them.

Alexios opens his mouth to speak, but Irene rises on her toes —kissing him again. He stumbles, the back of his knees hitting the edge of a stone bench. She lets out a startled gasp as he sits and pulls her astride his lap, but then his rough hands are on either side of her face. She is at his mercy, and Irene can't stop the flutter in her heart —that perhaps this was only a beginning and a promise of _more_.

Irene draws back, peering across the street into the _agora_. One of his hands slips to her thigh, the other moves from her cheek to neck. The mercenary is speaking to Demetria, who is pointing in the opposite direction of where they are now. Alexios doesn't bother looking, even as the other _misthios_ sets off in the wrong way, his focus is on the princess —his body humming from their shared kisses. He takes her lips again, just for good measure. Soft and slow. _This_, he thinks, _this feels right_. "Gods," the Eagle Bearer breathes when they part for the third and final time. "How'd you know that'd work?" He asks.

The Eagle Bearer is sure he has never seen Irene turn so red and flustered. "I didn't," she admits, unable to meet his intense gaze. Irene looks back toward Demetria's stall. "We should get back to the _Adrestia_," the princess says.

Anthousa had known Myrrine before she began to go under the moniker of Phoenix and she knows the name of the ship the Spartan woman took when sailing from the Korinthian harbor. "_Siren Song_," Irene muses, pacing the circumference of the painted map on the _Adrestia_. The name seems familiar to her and for good reason. She has seen a ship named that in several of her voyages. "I know that ship!" Alexios looks up at her outburst, brows furrowed. "Last I saw it was docked in Naxos."

He taps the largest of the Cyclades. "Then we sail for Naxos."

Herodotus approaches them and clears his throat. The historian is troubled about something. "What is it?" Irene asks.

Herodotus glances at the papyrus scroll that'd been delivered two nights ago. "I've received ill-tidings from Athens," he admits, passing the scroll to the princess. "Plague and unrest have taken the city."

☤☤☤

ALEXIOS YEARNS TO see his mother after so many years apart, but for the sake of his new friends, he sets course to Andros —then Athens. He's collected enough Cultist artifacts to return to the mysterious island. Poseidon is on their side for the seas are calm and a warm wind constantly fills the sail. Even pirates do not cross their path. The _Adrestia _docks on the eastern side of the island.

The ground creaks and groans beneath their feet, then dirt and dust waft upward with the wind. Irene takes another step, but her foot passes through the vegetation and sand. Something latches onto her waist before she falls over the edge. She doesn't even have time to scream before landing on the smooth and ornate floor below. "That wasn't so bad," she laughs, looking up at where she'd plummeted from.

"Yeah," Alexios groans from beneath her, "because I broke your fall." Irene braces her hands on his chest and sits up, straddling his waist as she takes in the dark surroundings. Hewn from dark stone the cavernous room is large enough for even the cyclopes. Daylight filters through the underbrush covering the gaping hole in the roof. "Princess," he rasps —hands going to her bare thighs. It's a pleasant sight, but not what he wants to focus on at the moment.

"Oh!" She exclaims, scrambling to her feet.

Alexios brushes himself off and glances at the roof of the cave. The hole they'd fallen through is shaped the same as the stone door he'd initially found —though neither of them had to present their spear to open this entrance. "What is this place?" Irene wonders aloud. She's never seen anything like it before, yet somehow its familiar —like a dream or a memory.

Above them, the hidden door begins to close. The Eagle Bearer lights a torch and holds it in front of him and the princess, guiding her toward the central dais. "An ancient forge," he answers, though that is all he knows. Herodotus claims this place was created by a primeval civilization —_those who came before_. Being in this place he's inclined to believe the historian's theories.

"Could it belong to Hephaestus?" Irene asks, voice filled with awe.

He laughs softly as they stop in front of the cast of Leonidas' spear. "That I do not know," he says. Irene runs her fingers against the smooth dark stone, tracing the design of the spearhead —beneath her fingertips is a minute golden light that disappears as soon as she lifts her hand from the stone.

"Here." Alexios places the bottom half of the spear into the mold and presses the artifact from Chyrsis into the indention. The blade glows the same yellow-gold as when it had shown her visions of Alexios as a child. He steps back and motions for Irene to take it.

When she grabs the spear, silver-gold markings instantly surface on her arms and legs and Irene screams, falling to her knees unable to relinquish the weapon. It feels as though she is burning from the inside. "Irene!" Alexios tries to take the spear, but when his fingers brush against the splintered wooden hilt a shockwave of energy sends him back into a felled form. He stares at her —horrified. The princess squeezes her eyes shut.

Alas, the broken spear slips from her grasp and Irene slumps to the stone floor. Alexios scrambles over to her, cradling her trembling body against his —unsure of what he had just witnessed. He strokes her cheek, pushing back the hair clinging to her face. "Irene?" The markings on her skin are pulsing with light, in sync with her rapid heartbeat. Alexios traces over the lines on her arm —they feel smooth but warmer than the rest of her body. "Irene?"

Her breathing slows and she opens her eyes —blue irises ringed with gold. Blinking, the golden light fades and so do the strange markings. "I-" she begins, lifting one of her hands to look over. There's a tingling beneath her skin, as though her senses have been enhanced. "I feel different," she breathes.

☤☤☤


	19. And The Streets Run Red

☤☤☤

PLAGUE RAVISHES ATHENS. Threatening to tear apart everything Perikles has worked for. The air is heavy with a foul stench –burning flesh, bile, and other excrements. A haze lingers over the city, blocking much of the sunlight from reaching the streets. A once vibrant city is laid low by disease and looks more like the underworld.

Hippokrates is burning the diseased corpses in hopes to prevent the spread, and radicals threaten him for the perceived desecration. He assures Irene there is nothing she can do to help –this plague is the result of the gods' wrath; he is sure of it.

As they near Perikles' villa, the throng of people grows thicker and at their head is Kleon the Everyman. "Kleon," Irene hisses, hands balling into fists at her side. It only takes a second of deliberation for her to begin marching toward the demagogue spurring on the disgruntled rabble of Athenian citizens. Alexios reaches out –seizing her wrist before she does anything rash. Now is not the time to pick a fight with Perikles' adversary, especially when he heads a mob. The fire in her eyes does not die down and the Eagle Bearer begins to wonder what had transpired between the two for such vivid hatred to linger in the princess' stormy gaze.

"Alexios, you're back!" A small voice calls. They both turn to find Phoibe running toward them –she stops, bouncing on her feet with a smile. "Got to run! See you at Aspasia's!"

"Wait!" Alexios calls, but Phoibe is already gone. Irene frowns. Athens is not safe for children to run about anymore. She glances up at the Eagle Bearer and can tell he worries for the girl, too –even if he tries hiding it. Irene's hand brushes over his arm –when he shifts his attention to her, she nods toward the Athenian leader's home. They would be able to find answers there.

Sentries allow them passage into the villa, no longer wary about the _misthios_ accompanying the princess. Alkibiades is pacing outside the home's entrance –for the most part, he's always able to keep a blithe outlook, but the city's gloom and sickness weigh heavily on him. "Allie?" He turns, surprised to see Irene. By now he figured she and Alexios would be halfway across the Aegean –he'd hoped that's where'd they be– far away from a foundering city.

"You've returned, sweetling," he says, though his voice doesn't hold the same charm it usually does. Alkibiades steps aside and motions them both inside. "Aspasia will want to speak with you." It troubles Irene to see him in such a despairing mood, but she nods and follows Alexios into the villa.

The villa has turned into a safe harbor –Aristophanes, Euripides, and Protagoras are among those present. "Oh, Irene," Aspasia cries and the two women embrace. The _hetaera _had nearly given up hope that she and the Eagle Bearer would return after her letters had gone unanswered. Irene glances around at those gathered within the courtyard and solar, but Athens' leader is not among them. She had hoped to speak with him about the war and the Cult. "Perikles?" The princess questions softly.

"Is dying," Aspasia chokes –suddenly Alkibiades grim guise made sense too. "He won't see me or Hippokrates." Perikles avoids her, as to spare himself from listening to her worry about his wellbeing. He refuses visits from Hippokrates too –claiming the physician's skills are better served helping the people of Athens than a dying old man. The _hetaera_ turns to the Eagle Bearer. "Alexios, he respects you. Would you see he receives his medicine?" She asks, holding out a small vial filled with a thin brown liquid.

Alexios takes the tonic and nods before leaving to seek out the leader. Irene steps into the courtyard and looks up at the dusky air –she's never seen Athens in this state before. By the look of it, the city will still be suffering for many months to come. "How long has it been like this?"

"Since the last full moon," Aspasia answers. In the first days, it was only a mild sickness, though that was all it took for the plague to tighten its grip. People from the countryside flocked to the city when the Spartan army advanced, but now not even the Spartans dare get too close. They view it as the gods' punishment for the Athenians and a sure sign they will emerge from this war victorious.

New plumes of dark smoke begin to fill the air, followed by the acrid smell of burning flesh and hair. Some days they could not burn the bodies quick enough and resorted to having the sick dig their own mass graves outside the city walls. Aspasia lays her hand on Irene's shoulder –she knows the princess is a fighter, but before she'd ever gone searching for blood, she was a healer, albeit a novice one. "There is nothing you can do," the _hetaera_ tells her.

"Hippokrates said the same." Irene knows it is a lie, though. _Medicine is in your blood_. She'd helped people on the precipice of death before –from sickness or injury. Their souls meant for Hades, but Irene kept them alive. She doesn't understand why she can help others in such a way, but couldn't even save her own brother in the forest from bandits. _Look what I've become, Zephyr._

Aspasia leaves the courtyard and goes to the adjoining solar. She's amassed several scrolls about Irene's father and the Order since the last time the princess was in Athens. She lays them on the altar and tells the princess what they are. Irene unrolls one of the smaller pieces of papyrus and frowns. _She evaded us in Argos_ the scroll reads in hurriedly written script_ and now she has the Eagle Bearer as a companion. _Irene picks another scroll from the pile. _We've come to an agreement then? Do as you will with Deimos and the brother, but the exiled princess is our claim. _"How did you come by these?" She inquires, it seems odd that Aspasia is always the one to have news of the Cult and Order.

"Thucydides came across Persian scouts in Boeotia," Aspasia explains, "the ones regarding your father were sent from Kos." Alexios has not returned from delivering Perikles' medicine, and the _hetaera_ begins pacing the perimeter of the courtyard, overwrought by something. Irene lays down another scroll and turns her attention to Perikles' partner. "What is it?"

"I expected Phoibe back by now-" Aspasia admits, turning back to Irene "-I sent her to Anastasios to see about a ferry."

It's at that moment the Eagle Bearer joins them. "You sent her out alone?" Alexios asks anger lacing his question. He would've stopped the girl before she'd run off if he'd known what she was meant to do. "I'm going to find her," he says, glancing between the two women before turning to leave.

"Why would you send a child out alone when the city is like this?" Irene demands. Aspasia blanches when as she recalls who else is within the city.

☤☤☤

PERIKLES TAKES IT upon himself to leave his villa to pray at the Parthenon, telling no one of his intentions. When Aspasia realizes he is missing, she asks Sokrates and Hippokrates to find Alexios. Irene will escort her to the Acropolis.

From the steps of the Acropolis, the extent of the plague can truly be assessed. Pyres and columns of blackened smoke pock the city. Athens is but a shadow of what it had once been. Irene turns from Aspasia upon hearing someone approach –her grip on the broken spear loosens when she sees who it is. "Alexios," she sighs, relieved, but his eyes are red, cheeks streaked with dried tears, and his hands stained with blood. Her heart sinks. "No," she whispers. _Phoibe_.

"Quickly, Alexios," the _hetaera_ says, motioning toward the temple's entrance. He stays rooted in place, gaze downcast. The grief is still too fresh. Irene lays her hand on his cheek and feels her own lip start to tremble. "What's gotten into you?" Aspasia inquires –the question sounds harsher than she'd intended.

"Phoibe is dead," Alexios chokes, pulling away from Irene's gentle touch. His brow furrows, hands clenching into tight fists. "She's dead because you sent her to do your work," he exclaims.

Aspasia takes a step back at the accusation. "No...I," she stumbles over the words, disbelieving, "it's not true. Phoibe wanted to go. She told me she would be all right." The words are hollow to Alexios and only serve to ease the _hetaera_'s guilt.

"And you believed a child," he spits. Irene rests her hand over the scars wrapping around his arm, trying to bring him out of the trance of grief and rage.

"You know Phoibe! She wouldn't have taken no for an answer. It was out of my hands," Aspasia says.

"Out of your hands?" Alexios shouts with the tears in his eyes renewed. "You sent her away! You could have protected her!"

"What I asked of her was needed to protect Perikles," Aspasia explains. "She lived to help others, Alexios. She lived to help _you_."

The statement makes him go quiet for a moment and he finally notices the soft grip Irene has on his arm. "She should be _here_," he says, voice strangled with emotion.

"Of course, she should," Aspasia replies, her voice going soft. "You know the cost of living this life."

Alexios' gaze darts to Irene. "I do," he replies, "but did Phoibe?"

Hippokrates and Sokrates arrive on the verge of panting –they'd come as quickly as they could, but the streets were turning to madness. A low wailing comes from inside the temple. Alexios moves to the head of the group and shoves both of doors open and drawing his spear.

"Perikles!" Aspasia screams and both she and Irene move toward where Athens' leader is at the feet of Athena's likeness. Sokrates and Hippokrates restrain Aspasia. Alexios holds back Irene. A woman clad in gold and dark steel armor is leaning over Perikles. She holds Perikles' bloodied face and forces the leader to look upon his friends, her dark gaze following. Irene sees the resemblance immediately and knows who she is. _Deimos_.

Alexios' grip on Irene's bicep tightens when his sister raises her blade to the leader's throat with a flourish. Deimos drags the full length of her sword across Perikles' neck and lets the leader collapse onto the tiled floor before rising –covered in blood. "Stay out of my stay," Deimos rasps and three cult guards take her place as she disappears behind the statue of Athena. The Eagle Bearer releases Irene and unsheathes his sword –she does the same.

The hair on the back of Irene's neck rises and she sidesteps the cultist guard before he can even start the forward motion of his blade. Irene steps up onto a terra cotta vase and leaps onto the guard's shoulders, plunging the spear deep into the area of exposed flesh where shoulder meets neck. She twists the spear -something _snaps_ and _cracks_ then the man is falling forward into the shallow reflecting pool. The other guards' attention is focused on Alexios. He blocks both advances, sword behind his back –spear pushing forward.

Irene approaches the guard at his hindmost and kicks the cultist guard's knee inward –quick to drive her broken spear into the back of his neck as he falls. The man gurgles blood for only a moment before she pulls the blade free. Alexios turns looking down at the corpse lying before his feet and to where another lies in the shallow pool –the water now tainted. His gaze shifts to Irene. Her hands and spear are coated in blood, her eyes ringed with the same golden light he'd seen in the forge on Andros.

The princess drops her spear and kneels next to Aspasia where Perikles' body lies. The _hetaera_ turns toward Irene, leaning against her shoulder. "You cannot stay here, Aspasia," she tells her. Athens will be too dangerous for her in the wake of Perikles's death, and Kleon is unlikely to offer sanctuary.

"We need to get back to the _Adrestia_," Alexios announces. Irene nods and helps Aspasia to her feet. She looks over her shoulder at the corpse of her partner for a final time before exiting the Temple of Athena. The Eagle Bearer moves ahead of the small group, scouting out guards and empty alleyways to pass through. Hippokrates, Sokrates, and Aspasia follow the princess, the former armed with a shovel and rake.

Several steps ahead, Irene watches as Alexios steps up behind a soldier and clamps his hand over the man's mouth. The flailing is over in an instant after a quick twist and the soldier slumps forward, unmoving. There'd been no sound, no blood. He looks back and motions toward one of the warehouses south of the Temple of Asklepius.

The docks are desolate –no one is entering or leaving the plague-ridden city– but the _Adrestia_ is waiting for them –lit braziers like a beacon in the night. Alexios and Irene share a quick look before stepping out into the open. The others follow. "Stop!" A voice shouts, and the five of them halt -turning to face those who dare try to hinder their escape. "Kleon has ordered no one to leave Athens." The Athenian _strategos _glances between the two women, recognizing them. "He wants Aspasia and Irene brought to him."

"I'm not going," Irene spits, tone acerbic. Aspasia steps up next to the princess, head held high despite how her world was crumbling. "Nor am I," she echoes.

"Don't let them leave," the _strategos _commands his men and they all draw swords.

"Stay behind me," Alexios tells them. Irene steps up at his side, sparing him a quick disproving glance –sword and spear drawn. "Stay behind _us_," she amends. They move in sync with one another. A storm of grace and fury. She blocks an overhand blow, twists, and swings backward -opening her attacker's throat. A spear is thrust towards her, but Alexios deflects it with his sword and catches the wooden shaft. He wrenches the spear from his opponent's hands and hacks his blade down into the man's skull, splitting open both metal and bone.

Only the Athenian _strategos _is left and both Irene and Alexios turn their attention to him at the same time -stalking forward. None of the gods can save him from the princess and Eagle Bearer. He sweeps his spear in a wide arc. They step back then move forward. Irene slips to her knees and drives her broken spear deep into the man's leg. His howl of pain is cut short by a quick slice to the throat.

The philosopher and physician agree to stay in the city. They will do what they can for the people and try to reign in Kleon's control. Irene does not wish for them to stay, for as soon as Perikles' body is found she knows riots will erupt in the streets. She does not protest their decision, though. "Stay safe," the princess whispers, placing a chaste kiss on Hippokrates cheek. "Stay alive," she utters, reciprocating the gesture with Sokrates. "And please, give Phoibe's body the proper rites," she all but whispers. Both men bow their heads as she steps back and boards the _Adrestia_.

☤☤☤

ALEXIOS SITS NEXT to Irene at the stern of the _Adrestia_ -Athens is already behind them on the horizon. Even after all this time, the Persian princess is still a mystery to him. She glances at him and then to the dried blood under her fingernails. "Why do you hate Kleon so much?" He hadn't really thought Irene was capable of harboring such odium. She has a gentle heart, and he knows something must have happened for a black streak to form.

Aspasia overhears the question and turns abruptly. "She hasn't told you?" She seems surprised that Irene has not voiced the reasons behind her hatred to the _misthios_, especially given that they seem so fond of one another.

Irene crosses her arms, face twisting in anger and disgust. She's never longed to shed blood needlessly, but given half the chance she'd mount Kleon's head on a pike outside the gates of Athens for the world to see. "He has hounded me since I became a woman." In truth, the moment her chest was no longer flat marked the beginning of his unrelenting and unwanted attention. He'd even went so far as to try poisoning her brother to force her into a union.

"One time he paid-off common street criminals to carry her off, strip her and leave her in the woods for him to _rescue_," Aspasia recounts.

The _misthios_' expression contorts to outrage. "What happened?" He asks.

"I killed them before they could lay a hand on me," Irene answers, uncrossing her arms, "and found the scroll written in Kleon's hand promising them drachmae for their cooperation." Perikles had been wroth after learning of his adversary's scheme, even Zephyr had been on the verge of taking up arms. Alkibiades had even tried hiring a mercenary to do away with the then captain until Perikles found out about his plan.

Tired, Irene rises from the bench –her hand briefly moving to Alexios' shoulder before taking leave to the bow where she's amassed a small collection of pillows and pelts during their travels. He watches her go –resisting the urge to reach out and take her hand to pull her back.

Barnabas inspects the ship deck, as is his nightly routine and comes to stand next to Alexios at the helm of the _Adrestia_. The captain looks between the commander and Irene at the bow of the ship with his good eye. The Eagle Bearer can hide his exhaustion and worry, but he's failed to hide his feelings toward the princess –or at least Barnabas can see it plainly. "You should get some rest, commander," he says, clasping him on the shoulder. Alexios follows Barnabas's gaze and lets out a heavy sigh, knowing the captain's intentions. "What?" He shrugs. "You two are good for each other."

Alexios shakes his head and turns, leaning against the railing. "She's a princess, Barnabas-" he crosses his arms wearing a look of defeat. The old sailor has never seen such a quailing expression on _the misthios_'s face before. "-I'm just a mercenary." Yet he's never felt the same kind of connection with another being that was so strong and consuming. He'd felt it ever since coming across her on the beaches of Samos. After years, he'd finally found the girl that haunted his dreams and she was _perfect_.

"I don't think she cares about that," Barnabas replies. If Irene cared about titles and status, she would have never agreed to sail with them on the _Adrestia_.

"Barnabas is right," Herodotus chimes, appearing to his right. "Go to her."

He listens to the historian and captain and kneels at her side, unsure of what to say or do. Frustrated, he begins to rise but a delicate hand seizes his wrist before he can stand. "Alexios," Irene breathes, pulling him back to his knees. "Stay," she says and he does, laying at her side, gazing up at a starless night sky. "I'm sorry about Phoibe," Irene whispers. She hadn't known the girl for very long, but in a short span of time, she'd come to admire her. A headstrong girl with a penchant for trouble that reminded Irene too much of herself.

"She-" Alexios bites down on the inside of his cheek to stay the tears that surface when he recalls Phoibe calling out his name, afraid "-she'll go to the Fields of Elysium," he tells her, voice heavy with grief. Irene rolls onto her side and tentatively lays her hand on his cheek. Seeing him fighting to restrain such dolor and pain makes her heart ache. _You don't have to be the face of strength all the time_ she wants to tell him, but the words are stuck in her throat. Alexios covers her hand with his own and gently slides it toward his lips –he kisses the center of her palm and releases her hand.

Irene moves her head to rest on his chest. He stiffens and she quickly distances herself, face burning red. Alexios shakes his head and draws her back toward him, arms wrapping around her waist. "Stay," he breathes, pressing his cheek into the crown of her head. He hadn't been able to protect Phoibe, and it is a mistake he will not make again. Alexios makes a silent vow that he will always protect Irene as he begins humming a hauntingly familiar lullaby. 

☤☤☤


	20. A Mother's Prayer

☤☤☤

HIS SEARCH LEADS him to Naxos and the closer the _Adrestia_ sails to the island, the more anxious he becomes. It is the closest he has been to his mother since that night on Mount Taygetos, and somehow he still feels leagues away. Irene walks with him along the white sands of a quiet cove. "Go on," she whispers, trying to soothe his addled nerves.

"What if she doesn't recognize me?" He asks. He had only been a boy of twelve on Mount Taygetos –still growing and not yet a warrior. Now though he is a man, hardened by life. All traces of the boy Myrrine once knew are gone. The boy his mother raised died on the slopes of Taygetos.

Irene smooths her fingers over his creased brow and across the scar below his eye before taking his face into her hands –forcing him to meet her gaze. She focuses on his eyes, which are darting back and forth, shining in the fading light of the sun. They are a deep, earthy brown with glints of old copper and flame. "You are her son," she tells him, "she will have never forgotten you, Alexios."

He desperately wants to share the princess's sanguinity. It's not just seeing his mother again for the first time in over a decade –it's figuring out how to tell her Kassandra is alive and she may be past the point of redemption. It's gathering the nerve to ask about his real father and the Cult. It's hoping his mother will adore Irene as he does.

There's a storm raging inside him and only action will quell it. The longer he waits, the stronger the storm will become. "Chin up, Spartan," she remarks, tipping his head back so he's no longer looking at their feet. Alexios takes her hands into his own –the briefest of smiles appearing on his lips. Irene raises to her toes and places a chaste kiss just below where his jaw and ear meet. He steps back but does not let go of her hands. "Go," the princess smiles, "I'll be here."

☤☤☤

MYRRINE THINKS THE gods are playing a cruel trick, but her son is alive and so is her daughter. She has just as many questions as Alexios, but hers can wait. Though the words on the tip of his tongue aren't a question, not yet anyway. "_Mater_, there's someone I want-" Timo rushes onto the balcony before he can finish.

They both turn at the interruption. "Soldiers from Paros just made landfall in the cove!" She announces, out of breath. "A small force, maybe a dozen."

His mother curses and sighs as though this is a common occurrence. "Gather the troops," she commands, then turns back to her son –eyeing the spear on his back and sword at his hip. "I assume you can use those weapons?" She asks. Before that fated night, he was still clumsy and timid –steadily improving like any boy yet to enter manhood.

Alexios smiles. "Better than when you last saw me," he notes with a soft laugh. Myrrine motions for him to follow. They will make short work of Silanos' troops. As he and his mother near the cove, Alexios feels his heart sink into the pits of his stomach. It is the same beach where he and the princess walked. Only now she is no longer on the white sand looking off to the horizon. In her place is a dozen men though two are already bleeding out.

He wastes no time trying to be stealthy and drives his sword through one man's gut then thrusts the broken spear up into another's neck –pulling it free from the other side. They fall concurrently, blood creeping toward the sea. A third brute hoists an axe above his head, though before it comes down, Alexios spins. Slashing both sword and spear across the brute's stomach –eviscerating him in a single fluid motion.

The other half of Leonidas' spear is laying in the sand, the blade glistening with blood. "Irene?" He calls. There is no response. Another soldier rushes toward him. Alexios turns, ramming the spearhead into the soldier's chest and slams the twitching body down onto the beach. "Irene!" He shouts but there is still no answer.

In only minutes. Paros' troops are defeated –either dead or dying. Myrrine raises her spear to finish off one of the soldiers. He is the only one still clinging to breath at the moment. The Eagle Bearer prowls toward the man before his mother can send him to meet Hades. "Where is she?" Alexios asks, seething. He had not come all this way just have Irene torn away from him.

The man lay dying, clutching his bloody entrails. "He. Took. Her." Pulses of bile and blood flow from his mouth between each word.

Alexios hauls the man to his feet. "Who?" He growls.

"Silanos," the man gasps.

"Tell me where he is and I'll ease your passing." The soldier opens his mouth, but no words come. His head lolls forward, spilling blood on the sand by the Eagle Bearer's foot. Alexios throws the corpse down and kicks the sand, brimming with rage. _Not Irene_ he pleads to whichever god will hear him and listen. _You already took Phoibe, don't take Irene._

Myrrine looks across the water to the sister island of Naxos. "Paros," she tells her son, laying her hand on his bloody shoulder. That is where Silanos resides. 

☤☤☤

SILANOS CROUCHES NEXT to the lost Persian Princess, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. She squirms at the touch but has nowhere to go with both hands and legs bound. They'd gagged her too after she almost bit off one of the deckhand's ears. Before that she'd been kept tied to a post like an animal.

"I imagine the Order will offer a handsome reward for such a prize." For twenty years, she has evaded the Order. A Tainted One in plain sight, rising amongst the ranks of the Athenian elite. His hand slides down to her throat and squeezes lightly –fear floods her eyes and stirs a carnal desire deep in Silanos. "But you may be of use to Deimos too. Yet that is for others to decide." The Cult and Order would choose what became of her, but until she was delivered to Phokis, Silanos of Paros controls her fate.

The cultist leans toward her. Irene feels his hot, acrid breath on her flesh and trembles. His hand moves from her neck, slipping below her _peplos_ and _apodesmos_. "You must enjoy the touch of a Spartan," he says, roughly, squeezing one of her breasts.

She clenches her jaw and rears back, smashing her forehead into Silanos' nose. He falls backward, two streams of red flowing over his lips and into his greying beard. Silanos touches the blood, looks at his fingertips and laughs. Struggle only makes his conquests sweeter. He surges forward, one hand winding into her hair, pulling her head back, the other pushing up the tattered remains of her skirt. Silanos drags his bloody nose and tongue up the pale column of her neck. He will have her before the day is done.

Irene writhes in his grasp, shouts, and curses silenced. Silanos shifts and she manages to quickly bend her knees, and kick out –her feet colliding with his groan. His wince of pain if followed by a snarl. The pressure on her scalp lessens and both his hands twist onto the thin material covering her breasts –it tears and bears her to him.

A cultist guard steps into the dark underbelly of the trireme and ends Silanos' assault. "A ship with an eagle figurehead approaches!" _The Adrestia._

Silanos growls and grips onto Irene's chin. "Perhaps I'll let you look upon your dead _misthios_ while taking you." The princess thrashes against her bonds as the cultist leaves and screams, but the sound is muffled. 

☤☤☤

PAROS' FLEET SINKS to the bottom of the Aegean, but there is no sign of Irene. Alexios' grip tightens on her half of the broken spear –feeling the faint indentation of her hand on the wooden shaft. He turns his sights to the island until one of Silanos' captured men laugh, asking how long he thought the princess could survive in the hull of a sinking ship. Myrinne races to look over the edge of the _Adrestia_ into the depths and watches as her son dives into the water without a second thought.

Her hands are still bound and she struggles to open the hatch to the deck. The butt of a broken spear is wedged under the hinges for leverage, but she is not strong enough and the weight of the water grows heavier with each passing second. One of the rowers' corpses floats past her.

Alexios reaches through the latticework of metal, fingers brushing over her arm. She looks up and sees his shadowed outline –hopeful even as her lungs begin to burn and darkness creeps into her vision. He plants his feet on the deck and pulls as she pushes with what strength remains in her body. The hinges give and the hatch lifts. He grips onto the rope tied around her wrists –begins swimming toward the surface as the trireme sinks further into a watery grave.

Two heads emerge next to the _Adrestia_. Alexios holds Irene against him, keeping her above the water he swims toward the ship with one arm. "Help get her up!" Barnabas shouts, spurring the crew into action. Five deckhands link arms and lean over the water –carefully pulling the princess up.

They lay her upon the deck. Barnabas slices through the bonds and quickly lays the ragged scrap of brown fabric draped over his shoulders across the princess –to protect her modesty. The Eagle Bearer collapses on his hands and knees next to her. Alexios pushes black hair from her face, leans down and is relieved to feel shallow puffs of air against his cheek. He runs his fingers over a fresh scratch on her temple and presses his forehead against hers. "Alexios," she breathes –unsure if it was him or a dream, but the way his arms tighten around her feels real. Irene's smile is ethereal and ephemeral before exhaustion takes her.

"Back to Naxos!" Myrrine shouts and the rowers extend their oars into the water, turning the ship back to the island. Alexios carries her from the dock through the streets up to his mother's villa and lays her on a _kline_, falling to his knees. She still breathes, but it feels as though he has failed her all the same. Aella follows him from the ship with a golden _chlamys_ and one of Irene's spare gowns. He removes Barnabas' mantle and replaces it with the soft golden fabric.

Weary, the Eagle Bearer rises, kisses her temple then stumbles from the room leaving her to rest. Myrrine finds her son on a balcony overlooking the sea. She has not seen him smile since Silanos' men landed in the cove.

Alexios glances to his side as his mother comes to stand next to him, leaning her hip against the stone railing. "She must be special to you," Myrrine notes.

He looks to the sea again and the depths remind him of her eyes. A lump rises in his throat. The princess is more than just _special_ to him. They share a connection he has never felt before with another woman –or man. It is more than physical attraction with Irene, his soul longs for her as does his heart. The gods must have crafted them for one another and fate had brought them together at last. Alexios glances at his mother and realizes there is a word that describes how he feels about Irene. "I love her, _mater_," he tells her, voice low and heavy with guilt.

"Did you know humans were created with four arms, four legs, and two faces?" He shifts toward his mother, brows furrowed. "Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves." She lays her hand on his cheek and wipes away the dampness beneath his eye. Myrrine sighs –she had felt a great power lying dormant within the princess. The same kind of power than ran in her and Alexios' bloodline, but much more potent. "She is your other half, Alexios." He blinks, unsure if he heard his mother correctly. "And she is strong." 

☤☤☤


	21. Down to the Water

☤☤☤

NIGHT FALLS AND still, Irene slips in and out of consciousness, though before the moon rises to its zenith, she begins to wake. The woman sitting next to her is not a familiar face, but Irene already knows who it must be —they have spent months searching for her. "Myrrine?" She asks, voice faint.

Myrrine nods with a gentle smile, reaching for one of her hands partially covered by the golden silk. "Thank you for helping bring him back to me," she says —there something almost doleful about her smile. _Hold him gently_ she wants to tell Irene_he has been cracked enough as it is and his heart is more shattered than he lets on_.

"Lamb?" She calls and seconds later Alexios appears —he'd been pacing back and forth for half the night, sick with worry and unable to rest. His eyes are downcast as he enters, but the tautness in his shoulders fades when he sees the princess is sitting upright. The Eagle Bearer rushes over, pulling her into his chest and burying his face into her neck.

Irene presses her cheek against his hair and loosely grips onto his arms. Alexios lets her go after a long moment and leans back, taking in her unkempt appearance —even now she is a goddess. "You're stunning," he utters, caught in a trance —her eyes are the only sea he would happily drown in. Irene smiles —the tips of her fingers tracing over his jaw.

Lost in each other, it's easy to forget they are not alone. "How did you come by this?" Myrrine enquires, holding the other half of her father's spear. She had not noticed it before, but the markings are unmistakable —as is the power it harbors.

The question brings the world crashing back down around Irene as the color fades from her rosy cheeks. "_Mater_," Alexios warns, but the princess lays her hand on his chest and draws in a slow breath.

"I-" Irene sees no point in hiding the truth. Alexios's arm wraps around her waist. "I am the daughter of Amytis and Apollonides. A Princess of Persia, granddaughter of Xerxes." Anger flares in Myrrine's eyes, her grip on the spear tightens. It is the spear of her father, and she has every right to be irate it had fallen into Persian hands, but now is Irene's chance to remedy the past. "You can have it if you wish."

Leonidas' daughter glances down at the broken spear then up to her son and the woman he holds in his arms. The two halves have come together —are whole again even if the great weapon has not been reforged. Myrrine places the spear on the table, bows her head with a soft sigh —shoulders sagging. "The gods granted you this for a reason," she declares before leaving.

Irene lets out a slow breath and feels the unease and tension in the room slip back into oblivion. "I thought she was ready to run me through," she says with a dry laugh.

He presses his forehead against hers. "Wouldn't have let her, princess." His words dance over her cheek. Irene smiles and lifts her chin so her lips brush against his. It feels like the right thing to do. Alexios responds immediately, cradling the back of her head and neck. Her lips are soft and have the faintest hint of salt upon them. He draws back, thumb tracing the fresh scab on her forehead. "You must be starving."

"Famished," she confirms, "but I'd like to bathe first." Saltwater disagrees with her skin and hair, as do days of mud and sweat. Alexios nods and presses his lips to her temple —she can feel his faint smile against her skin.

At this hour, the bathhouses are empty. Faint tendrils of steam rise from the water, mixing with silver rays of moonlight. Irene unwraps the golden chlamys and reaches for the fibula at her shoulder, unclasping the pin. She lets the ruined linen puddle around her feet and steps down into the water, turning to look over her shoulder. Alexios is shifting on his feet, gaze turned toward the tiled floor though she can make out the faint wash of color on his cheeks. "Stay with me?" His response is the sound of metal bracers clattering against the stone floor —greaves following shortly after.

Alexios watches her from a distance —wringing suds and oil from her black hair— and feels his heart start to beat faster. It isn't fair Irene can make him feel like an infatuated and foolish boy. He finds another scar on her back, near her shoulder. This one is smaller than the one curving upward beneath her arm, but the silvery mark is unmistakable against her sun-kissed skin.

There's a quick moment of surprise when a coarse sea sponge touches her back, but Irene relaxes instantly when a familiar hand settles on her waist. He washes her back without saying a word. Soon the sponge is replaced by the rough pads of his fingertips tracing over the small scars on her upper back. Shivers crawl over her body. "Alexios," she breathes, glancing over her shoulder at him —his brows are creased and lips pressed into a taut line. Sighing, Irene turns to face him, hands resting on his broad shoulders and a soft smile on her lips. He looks at her as if her smile is the only thing that matters.

Alexios rests his other hand on her neck. His eyes flick down to her lips before he leans forward. Slowly, inexorably, he presses his lips to Irene's. This time it feels different. It's soft and gentle and chaste and maybe there's no lightning or sparks, but it's far better than that —it's a wave of warmth that fills him up, spilling from his heart. The warmth of Irene's lips on his makes him understand why Orpheus would follow Eurydice into the underworld —he would undoubtedly do the same. He doesn't say anything, but it's written in his eyes and over his face —it has been for quite some time.

He tugs her over to the marble steps and draws her into his side. "Where will you go now?" The princess is afraid to know the answer —she does not wish to be parted from him. Distracting herself from somber thoughts, she traces the raised scars wrapping around his bicep. One day she'll ask how they came to be.

Alexios feels he has known Irene long enough to decipher what many of her expressions really mean and how she acts when worried about something yet to pass. He catches her hand before she can move to the scar on his shoulder and links his fingers with hers. "_We _sail for Thera then Lakonia," he tells her. They had come this far together, and he wasn't about to let the woman he loved go.

Irene rests her head against his shoulder and lets out the faintest of gasps when he lazily runs his fingers down her spine. "Without you, I'd be at the bottom of the sea," she whispers —recalling the darkness surrounding her, the weight of the water growing heavier, and the way her lungs burned.

He shakes his head and lifts his hand to her cheek. This was all his fault. "If not for me you'd have never been taken by a Cultist," he says, voice low and filled with guilt.

The princess frowns. The blame lies solely with Silanos and the Cult, not with him. "You can't be sure about that," she counters, "who's to say I wouldn't have come to Naxos of my own volition?" She'd long thought about visiting Naxos and Paros to see the famed beaches and quarries. Silanos could have easily captured her even if the Eagle Bearer had never crossed her path.

"Irene," Alexios chides. She covers his hand and turns her cheek, pressing her lips against the center of his palm. He pulls her back against him, and the princess settles into his embrace, head resting on his shoulder again. The calm is interrupted by the sharp growl of Irene's stomach. She buries her face into his chest and Alexios laughs, holding her tight.

☤☤☤

ALEXIOS IS MISSING when Irene wakes. His mother had seen him leave but is not sure where her son disappeared to with a gleam in his eye, wearing a lovesick smile. For now, Myrrine has begun making final preparations for her departure as she plans on returning to Sparta and reclaiming her home. She motions for Irene to join her and Timo in their discussion regarding Naxos' future defense. "My son tells me you grew up in Athens," she notes and surprisingly there is no indication of distaste for Athenians. Naxos was a member of the Delian League.

"Partly," Irene amends, "for a time I was raised in Persia, too."

"How would you go about defending this island?" Myrrine inquires —if the princess had truly grown up around the likes of Hydarnes and Perikles then she would no doubt be skilled in strategy.

Irene looks over the map, considering the number of soldiers stationed on the island and the number of ships at the isle's disposal. Naxos is fairly small and she describes a beacon warning system that can connect the island's coasts and allows for the quick dispatch of men to land or sea. All that would be needed were a series of watchtowers and braziers. Myrrine steps up to the map table and places several markers where construction of the watchtowers would be most suitable. It is a sound plan and there are enough resources for the system to be implemented immediately. "That is all for now, Timo."

Myrrine rounds the table, regarding Irene closely. It's the first time she's really taken in the princess's appearance. A dusting of freckles on her cheeks and forehead. Eyes a deep, clear blue —she wonders how many men have drowned in the depths of her eyes and if her son is one of them. Her hair is darker than the night sky and falls in loose waves from being plaited overnight. Irene is a fighter, but her features are still rounded and soft —unlike the women of Sparta. Alexios' mother now knows it is not only Irene's beauty that has enchanted her son.

"I'm sorry for how I reacted last night," Myrrine admits, pouring a cup of watered wine, "I had not expected to see the other half of my father's spear in my lifetime." Reaching behind her back, Irene takes the spear and lays it on the table between her and Myrrine. Explaining how Hydarnes had entrusted it to her as a girl, unknowing she would be able to harness its powers.

"A warrior, a healer, a politician, Athenian, and Persian," Alexios' mother rattles off a handful of the words her son had used to describe the princess. A faint smile crosses her lips as she pushes the broken spear across the table. "Few people wear that many titles," she remarks —admiration lacing the statement. Irene flushes at the compliment and takes the cup of wine Myrrine offers.

Shortly after midday, Alexios returns and steals Irene away from his mother to a waterfall where a pallet of pillows and linen blankets have been arranged at the edge of the natural pool. Irene turns to look at him, but his gaze is lowered and he's rubbing the back of his neck —as he often does when nervous. She takes his face into her hands, kissing him quickly upon the lips. "I love it," she murmurs, and all his unease fades with those words.

"Join me for a swim?" The princess asks, already beginning to undo the buttons at her shoulder —she slips out of the dull green _exomis_ and stands proudly in her smallclothes whilst tying up her dark hair. Alexios takes in her shapely figure, tawny-gold eyes unabashedly trailing up her strong legs to the soft curves of her hips and stomach. He's pulled from the trance when Irene reaches for the pins holding his deep grey _chiton _up —stepping out of the puddle of fabric, he follows her into the water.

The cool water is a pleasant contrast to the sweltering heat of the day, but there is still a type of heat between the princess and Eagle Bearer that water cannot cure. Alexios catches a glint in Irene's eyes that he's never noticed before, it's something dark and hungry. "What?" He asks —attempting to decipher the contemplative expression she wears.

Irene's teeth tug on her bottom lip as she wades over to him, hands resting on his chest. "I want you," she utters and her voice is so low and rough she can hardly recognize it.

Alexios' dark gaze flickers to her parted lips then below the water's surface to the soft swells of her breasts. Desire stirs in him too. He's wanted her ever since he laid eyes on her when she was sitting on that gods' cursed beach in Samos. He surges forward, takes her face into his hands and presses his lips against hers —hard. "Irene, we-"

She cuts him off with another kiss. "I know what I want, Alexios."

The dry caress of his open mouth is warm against her neck. She shivers and without willing it, her body draws against his as he drags his lips from her throat to collarbone and back up. Irene's own quiet, yearning song joins his satisfied, broken humming. He finds the pin holding her dark wool _apodesmos_ in place and tugs it free —pulling the sodden material off and tossing both items toward the pool's edge. All Alexios can do is look at her, eyes darkening at the sight of her. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, jaw flexing. He's a man of few words, but she can read exactly what's written all over his face. He wants her, too.

Alexios' palms move up her sides, pausing to stroke her breasts, then slides over her arms and shoulders. One finds a home gently cradling her head and cheek, the other runs long, tickling, fingers through the tangle of her dark hair. The motion sends a shiver down the princess's spine, but then his hand catches on a knot —she half-laughs at the exasperated look that overcomes his sharp features. Her soft laugh is silenced by another kiss, this one more urgent than the last.

Her hands, unemployed, move of their own accord over his chest, over his arms, squeezing lightly. Irene tugs at him, but he stands like a statue of marble. Immovable. Alexios finds her lips again and dips his hands beneath the water, finding and untying the knot of her _perizoma_. He's seen her bare before —fleeting glances when she bathed or changed clothes— but now he is certain she is a goddess for even her scars are silver.

He lifts her onto a smooth rock at the edge of the pool —coaxes her knees apart and lays gentle kisses from the inside of her ankle up to her thigh. "What-" the question dies on her lips as his mouth descends upon her. Alexios drags her legs over his shoulders and makes a feast of the princess as though he is a starved man who'd stumbled into a banquet.

No man has ever taken her like this before. Her hands tangle into his matted hair. The stubble of his jaw against her thighs, the warm caress of his tongue, and his teasing fingers is all too much. "Alexios," Irene breathes trying to push him away before she shatters, but he holds her in place and savors the soft whimpers and quiet moans that leave her lips. He looks up at Irene —lips glistening with her essence, ocher eyes painted dark by lust.

Alexios eases her legs from his shoulders and lifts her from the edge of the pool to lay her back on the spread blanket. Her cheeks are flushed, lips red and swollen, and breasts heaving as she recovers from a flood of ecstasy —to him she is Aphrodite made flesh, the weaver of wiles.

Settling between her thighs again, Alexios unties his loincloth —tossing it aside and resumes his adulation by covering Irene's neck and cheeks with quick kisses. She laughs and to him, the sound is sweeter than any song a siren could ever sing. His soft and copious kisses are not enough to fully distract the princess from the hard length resting against her hip, though.

Irene drapes one of her legs across his waist and her arm around his shoulders, pressing herself against him until she twists and flips Alexios onto his back. He grunts at the soft impact, and she is quick to straddle his waist —pinning his hands down beside his head. Defiance flares in his eyes, but fades when his face contorts as her warmth envelopes him and strings of curses fall from his lips.

She rocks against him, lips parting as she adjusts to his girth. Alexios slips his hands free from hers and sits up so his chest is flush with hers. He finishes ruining the disheveled braid holding back black waves of hair darker than Nyx's. Kissing her, he rolls his hips, the slow drag of his cock along her walls makes her breath shake. Irene's fingers slide into his hair, holding on as she rotates her hips to meet his with each thrust. If anyone happens across them, they will only think it is one of Ares and Aphrodite's forbidden romps. "Irene," he whispers against her chest like a devotee at prayer. _I love you_ is what he means.

Neither of them will last much longer —too much has been left unspoken, undone between them. His eyes are unfocused yet entirely focused on her, each thrust sloppier than the last. Irene presses forward to kiss Alexios and pant against his mouth as his hips jerk up into her. Her hands are at his shoulders, sweat-slick and trembling beneath her palms, and his forehead is slick too when he pushes against hers.

She's so close, so close, and by his uneven movements and the short gasps at her ear, Alexios is too. "Alexios-" Irene's mouth falls open.

Each thrust and the roll of his body against the engorged bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs brings her closer. One of his hand presses into her lower back and he shifts, hitting a new spot that causes a sobbing wail to escape her lips as she shudders against him —grip tight on his shoulders. Her body pulls him in, a wordless beckon for him to join her over the precipice. With a few more weak thrusts, he does.

Alexios falls backward into the pallet and takes Irene with him. He pulls the princess closer, tracing a constellation on her shoulder.

"You've ruined me," Irene tells him with a smile. She can feel the rumble of laughter in his chest before hearing it. She's had several lovers, though she can honestly say none compare to the Eagle Bearer —or perhaps it is because she has never felt anything for her previous flings as she does with Alexios. Irene knows the word that describes how she feels about Alexios, but she's terrified of admitting it to herself, let alone him.

The sharp curve of his nose presses heavily into the crook of her neck. Alexios inhales her scent with a deep sigh. "I've wanted you since I saw you on that _malákas_ beach on Samos," he admits.

The princess props her chin upon his chest and traces the line running down the center of his abdomen, her fingertips stopping just shy of his naval. Irene knows this marks a change in their dynamic, but she can't be sure if it's for better or worse. "And now you have me," she smiles.

"I do," Alexios smirks, giving her backside a playful squeeze.

"Ahem," Timo clears her throat and quickly looks away from the pair of young lovers she'd stumbled upon. Though with another fleeting glance the general realizes it is Alexios and the princess —the exact persons she'd been sent to find. "Your mother is looking for you," she notes before retreating up the path toward the _chora_. Alexios rolls onto his back, sighing, he isn't ready to leave this spot, this moment in time.

Irene pulls herself from his embrace and reaches for her _exomis_, neglecting the sodden wool strips of her underthings. He follows suit, shrugging his grey _chiton_ back on. She looks at the footpath leading from the waterfall to the city, reluctant to go down it. Alexios wraps one of his arms around her waist and pulls her back into him —stealing one last lingering kiss.

Myrrine looks between her son and the Persian princess as they appear from the worn path leading to the sacred waterfall of Dionysos —arm in arm and laughing like children. It fills her with joy to see her son happy. "I'm glad you both could join us," she remarks, arms crossed though her tone is laced with amusement. Irene's cheeks grow heated under Myrrine's gaze. Alexios rubs the back of his neck, unable to meet his mother's eyes.

☤☤☤


	22. A Family's Legacy

☤☤☤

THE _ADRESTIA'_S CREW encircle Alexios and Irene on the deck —Barnabas and Herodotus watch from the helm. As of late, they all have started making bets on who will win the sparring matches between them. The Eagle Bearer wins most of them, but that doesn't stop a handful from always betting on the princess. All it takes is for the commander to get distracted by a wayward smile or salacious glint in Irene's sapphire eyes and he is on his back.

She dodges his swing, slips under his arm and lands a blow to his back. He grunts, spinning around and finds she is already gone. The princess hooks her leg around his, throwing him off-balance. Alexios begins falling backward, but he grips onto her _chiton_ and twists. Irene lands on her back and he catches his weight on his forearms. "You almost had me," he breathes, a slight smile playing on his lips. She is pinned beneath him on the ship's deck —chest heaving in exertion. Alexios hovers above her —his breathing coming in soft pants. It had been a good match.

Several of the crew toss drachma to one another, grumbling as they return to their tasks. "Not going to finish me off, commander?" Irene asks, fluttering her lashes.

Alexios rolls his eyes as he stands, offering her his hand. "Later," he promises, pulling her up from the deck with a wink.

The remainder of the day is uneventful —a pleasant change from the usual chaos. A warm breeze fills the sails and the crew sing hymns to Poseidon and Ares. Eppie and Barnabas are deep in discussion about myths and old legends. Herodotus transcribes his work onto papyrus scrolls. It's but a preview of a simpler, more peaceful life.

By sundown, everyone has gathered into small groups of four or five around the braziers, sharing wine and stories. Ikaros perches on Alexios' shoulder and the princess spoils the golden eagle with strips of fish and pieces of fresh fruit. "If you keep feeding him, he'll be too fat to fly," Alexios chides, and Ikaros squawks his disagreement, hopping from foot to foot on the _misthios_' shoulder. Irene laughs and ruffles the eagle's feathers the way he likes, silently promising him a few more treats the next time Alexios looks away.

Silver moonlight reflects off the dark surface of the water —a hundred stars are shining down as though the gods are smiling upon Alexios and Irene. The princess settles back, and Alexios wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Ikaros circles high above them in the night sky. "Do you think strangers will hear our names long after we are gone and wonder who we were?" She asks softly.

Alexios traces a faint line connecting freckles on the inside of her forearm, deciding it looks almost like one of Artemis' arrows. "People will remember us," he assures her, placing a quick kiss to the corner of her jaw, "what we are doing will echo across the ages." Irene shifts in his arms to face him —he looks at peace, though she knows a storm is brewing within him the closer they sail to Thera.

The pad of his thumb traces the fading scratch on her temple. Her eyes slip shut and reopen when his touch fades only to be replaced by his lips pressed to hers. Alexios pushes the fabric covering her shoulder aside and follows with a line of open-mouth kisses. Ikaros lands on the sternpost of the ship and looks down at the pair then screeches. "I don't fancy an audience tonight," she breathes with a soft laugh.

Alexios tries to shoo the eagle away, but Ikaros' call is louder this time and now he can see burning braziers moving closer, illuminating a black sail with a dragon's head. "_Malákas _pirates!" He curses, springing into action —regretting having ignored Ikaros' first warning.

"Pirates!" Irene calls and the crew begin to spill out on the deck —most are half-dressed with little armor and by the time everyone takes their stations the galley as turned. The bronze ram glints in the moonlight, pointed at the _Adrestia_'s flank, oars diving into the water propelling it across the water.

"Brace!" Alexios shouts —crouching with Irene under his arm. The impact almost knocks them off their feet. Several of the crew are launched into the air and sea. The churning waves settle and then it becomes a race. The Eagle Bearer leads the boarding party with a fierce shout, Irene and several others join him. It's a quick and bloody affair —they leave none alive. Alexios searches the deck and finds the princess kneeling next to one of the deckhands.

Thekla pushes Irene's hands away. She already knows this wound will be fatal —not even Hippokrates himself could repair the damage the pirate's blade had done. Alexios kneels next to the woman and grasps onto her hand in camaraderie. "A quicker death is all I ask," she chokes, blood trickling from her mouth. He frees the broken spear from the sheath on his back and Irene rises, turning away —unable to watch. Eppie pulls her into an embrace and watches over her shoulder as Alexios slips the spear between Thekla's ribs. A soft gasp escapes her lips before unending serenity overtakes her expression. The crew wraps Thekla's body in a cut of the old faded sail. They will bury her once making landfall.

☤☤☤

A THICK SULFUROUS haze lingers over the Volcanic Islands. Thera is the largest of the three islands and desolate, though ruins of a once-great people remain. On the dark shores, the crew takes a moment and lays their fallen companion to rest in a pit of black sand. Most return to the _Adrestia _after the short ceremony, but Irene and Alexios search the ruins for any sign of his father. They come to a gateway nearly identical to the one on Andros, but this one is larger. Recalling how he'd opened the gate, Alexios frees the broken spear from his quiver and touches it to the dark stone —nothing happens.

Something behind the door draws Irene closer. She lays her hand flat against the smooth rock and warmth spreads over her limbs. "The light," she says stepping back then pointing to one of the reflective mirrors at the pinnacle of the southernmost ruins. _A puzzle_. Aligning the mirrors does not take long, especially since Ikaros had taken care of the snakes littered about the ruins. A focused beam of light shines on the gateway, illuminating a blue-white triangle before the stone starts grinding. The triangular entrance gapes open, leading into darkness. "I don't even know if I'll come back," he admits, looking into the depths of the dark passage. Alexios is not one to show or admit fear readily, but Irene knows him well enough to spot it, and there is no point in trying to conceal it.

The princess guides his dark gaze back to her. In comparison to the black volcanic rock and ruins, she is a ray of light. "This is not where your journey ends, Alexios," she assures him. Deep down, Irene knows fate has more in store for both her and Alexios. Their fate does not end here in the ruins of Thera. "Nor where our ways part," she adds.

A smile crosses his lips. "You sound so certain," Alexios breathes —he wants to share in her optimism, but the unknown keeps him from doing so.

"I am," Irene says, placing a short kiss to his cheek. For a moment, he gapes at her —if this is to be his end, he wishes for her fair face to be the last thing he sees before the Keres take him. She nudges him toward the door, breaking him from the trance. Alexios disappears into the ruins —the gateway closing behind him— and Irene wanders along the barren and destroyed streets of Akrotiri.

Light breaks through the haze and catches something both crystalline and metallic. The object is heavy in hand given its size and reminds Irene of the metal of Leonidas' spear. She reaches behind her back for the broken spear. The tip of the blade begins to glow as it nears the ingot. At the same time, the strange markings she's seen before surface on her skin, though this time there is no pain.

Irene takes the opportunity to look at them closely. The lines and smooth curving arcs are a mix between silver and gold and run from her fingers to her toes. They are smooth but feel warmer than the rest of her skin. A part of her is tempted to ask Herodotus what these markings mean, but after a moment of silent thought, the princess decides some questions might be better left unanswered. Still, she cannot help but wonder if this has to do with her father.

A hand falls onto her shoulder, and instinct takes over. Irene lashes out, sweeping her leg around and knocking the would-be assailant to the ground. He falls to his back with a groan —he should have known better than to sneak up on the princess. "Alexios!" She reprimands, offering him her hand. Alexios takes hold of her hand, but tugs her down across his lap instead of rising to his feet.

There's a distant look in his eyes. "Atlantis is real," he breathes. Irene isn't sure she'd heard him right. _Atlantis is just a children's story_. Hydarnes used to tell her stories of the lost city when she was a girl. Before she can say anything or question him, he meets her gaze and recalls what Pythagoras had told him. "My father is down there," Alexios whispers and he is less than happy with the revelation.

☤☤☤

WAVES BREAK AGAINST the _Adrestia_, rocking the ship as a mother rocks a babe in her arms. On the horizon are dark clouds, though. It will be a stormy night. Irene is left to wonder if the gods can sense the storm growing within her.

Alexios has been nigh silent since returning from the depths beneath Thera. It is clear the weight on his shoulders has increased tenfold. He sits atop the sternpost watching the last of Helios' light disappear beneath the waves. Irene is speaking with Iola —a former smuggler and Barnabas' new flame. The two women laugh, though when the princess shifts her gaze up to him her smile fades.

Nearly the entire crew goes below deck, urged quietly by Herodotus and Iola to give the commander and princess a moment of solitude. It's obvious there are things between them that need to be said and are not meant for the ears of others. Alexios jumps down from the sternpost, comes to stand next to her at the helm. "You're troubled," she notes gazing at the blackened horizon. He does not bother denying the accusation.

"I just-" Alexios tilts his head back, looking to the heavens and draws in a deep breath "-have a lot to think about." _I was never going to raise you_. Anger pulses through his veins at the thought of Pythagoras. _An obligation to preserve the bloodline. _He drapes his arm over Irene's shoulders and presses his forehead into her temple. Right now, she is his anchor in the calamity of life. "I'm glad you're with me," he breathes.

Irene steps back. "I know you're hiding something, and I won't press you to say anything-"

"I don't know how to tell you," he says in turn, cutting her off as he starts to pace the deck with arms crossed and a pensive expression. It should be easy to say, and she needs to know.

Irene steps into his path and presses her hand against the center of his chest. His arms uncross and his shoulders fall. Irene knows he is not a wordsmith and does not expect an eloquent verse. "Just say it," the princess tells him, voice just above a whisper.

Alexios grips onto her arms and meets her gaze —stormy like the sea around them. "You're a demigoddess." A playwright or poet would have fashioned the words into art. He is neither. Even Pythagoras managed to word the revelation more adroitly before he spoke of the princess as a broodmare for the bloodline. Alexios watches her expression, but she has always been able to mask her inner thoughts —it's what made her a skilled orator and politician. "Apollonides was a guise for Asklepios," Alexios explains. "Your father _is _the God of Medicine."

People called him a demigod, but his is not the blood of Olympus. Irene though is truly descendant from the heavens. She suspires, turning from the helm and takes a seat on one of the benches at the stern. Alexios follows and kneels in front of her. "I always believed he was just an Asklepiad." Irene absently touches his cheek, fingertips ghosting over the stubble on his jaw. Her soft laugh is filled with bitter emptiness. "He must be ashamed of me," the princess notes, "all the lives I've taken." Instead of saving people from Hades, she sends them to him. 

☤☤☤


	23. Hekatoncheir Trap

THE STORM PUSHES the Adrestia off-course and it is not until midday that they find their heading once more and soon after they dock. Irene looks around the dark soil and smoke billowing from the peak of one low-lying mountain. "Where are we?" She asks, having never ventured to this part of Hellas before. 

"This is Melos," Barnabas remarks in his usual cheerful tone —nothing could dampen the old sailor’s spirits. "One of the Playgrounds of Ares." _That explains the volcanoes then_ Irene thinks, catching a whiff of sulfur. Ikaros lands on the railing between her and Alexios. 

"We restock and rest here," Alexios announces. The storm takes its toll on his crew. Many are already asleep above and below deck from manning the oars to keep from crashing into rocks during the storm. They need to gather supplies for minor repairs, restock barrels with potable water, and rest before continuing to Lakonia. 

Irene, Iola, and Eppie take to the small _agora_ —seeking out hearty foods capable of lasting weeks at sea. Alexios seeks a blacksmith or merchant to sell or trade the armor he’d found in a chest on the pirate’s war galley before the Aegean claimed it. The blacksmith of Melos is a grizzly fellow that stands a whole head taller than Alexios —his arms and neck thick and strong as trunks on young trees. “What can I do for you today, _misthios_?” He inquires. 

The Eagle Bearer places the set of armor on the anvil and walks away with three heavy pouches of drachmae. He passes through the square and pauses to listen to a richly-clothed man speaking to a small gathering. “Warriors! Heroes! Mercenaries of all types!” He shouts. “Sign up here for the Battle of One Hundred Hands. Would you like to be rich? Are you the next Champion?” The man asks before catching a glimpse of Alexios in the crowd. “You, _misthios_. You look like a true contender.” 

He returns to the _Adrestia_ with a fresh glint in his eyes that reeks of mischief. Either he’s done something or is about to do something reckless. Irene passes a basket of fruit to Tyche and crosses her arms as she turns to face Alexios. "What have you done now?" She asks, immediately seeing through his innocent feint. 

"There’s a contest,” he explains, gripping onto her hands, “if I win, we will be that much closer to eliminating another cultist.”

As soon as he says it, everything clicks in place for the princess. _Melos_. _Contest_. _The Battle of One Hundred Hands_. "Alexios! You fool!" Irene scolds. She knows this infamous contest, where thousands have come willingly to die in pursuit of glory and riches.

"I thought you had more faith in me,” Alexios smiles, and by the gods that charming smile could _almost_ get him out of anything. She does not doubt his skills in battle, only his ability to face a hundred warriors with nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

“And what am I supposed to tell your mother if you don’t make it?” Irene queries, crossing her arms. She doesn’t want to be the one to tell Myrrine her son died like so many others in a futile competition. He may fight like Achilles —Ares even— but even the mightiest of men can be slain by one arrow. 

The princess follows Alexios back into the _agora_ where she finds herself staring up at an oddly familiar face. "Drakios,” Irene greets, recognizing the merchant —though now his hair and beard are greyer since the last time he had visited Athens. Her frown starts to fade. 

He steps down from the platform. Arms open and smiling. "That is not Irene of Athens is it?" Irene offers a smile and accepts the two quick kisses he places upon her cheeks in greeting. Alexios steps next to the princess, gripping onto her hand —invidious. "How is your brother?" Drakios questions. 

Zephyr enjoyed campaigning for champions in Attika —had made acquaintances with many of those who came to Melos only to die in the pursuit of riches and glory. "Dead," she replies, receiving no sympathy from the merchant. 

Flocks of fighters gather near city walls —contestants eager to spill blood. The start of the competition draws near. Drakios shifts his attention from the contestants back to Irene and the Eagle Bearer. "Join me on the wall,” he says, smile genuine though something heinous lurks in his dark stare, “you can have the best view to see this _misthios_ carve his way to victory." The princess nods, accepting the offer with a tight smile. 

Alexios takes his place among the other competitors at the gates leading to the sulfur-dotted landscape. Irene lays her hand on his cheek, holding his warm tawny-gold gaze. “Stay safe,” she breathes. He leans toward her and plants his lips upon hers for a short, sweet kiss —something to give him comfort in his last moments if the gods decide he is not meant to see another sunset. 

Scaling the stone-steps to join Drakios in his grand booth feels like she is willingly walking into a trap. The merchant steps up to address the contenders. “We have gathered here again for the Battle of One Hundred Hands.” A pause as the participants glance around at one another. “Indeed, impressive warriors from all over the Greek world have come to test their might and skill against each other. Whether it is the sharpest sword in the Athenian army or the broadest shield Sparta can muster, all now stand alone against the many.” Spartans, Athenians, bandits, and those with no allegiance fighting to the death. 

“At our climax, the final two contenders will face off on a special battlefield, but only one will be called Champion.” Roars erupt from below. “Let the Battle of One Hundred Hands begin!” Drakios shouts. His cry is echoed by a low horn blast, making the start of the battle. 

Hours drag by —or at least to Irene it feels like hours— before the second horn blast.A quarter of those men and women already dead. “You’re making quite a name for yourself, _princess_,” Drakios sneers. Her blood runs cold. “I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. _Just a head_,” he laughs. Irene grips onto the splintered lance of the broken spear, but a guard stays her hand. 

“This is all a rouse, isn’t it?” The princess queries, spitting at the merchant’s feet. A third horn blast rings out —half are dead. 

He looks down disgusted. “You’re more perceptive than he is,” Drakios remarks. “We’ve hoped to lure Deimos’ sibling out for years,” he explains, grinning. “And now that Alexios is finally here he brings me a Persian princess, too.”

The guard releases his hold on her when the fourth horn sounds and two competitors approach the wall from the low-lying smoke. Irene's relief is palpable when she sees one of the survivors is Alexios. The other is a woman with a swarthy complexion, a shield of Athena strapped to her back. She is a warrior and her expression is that of cold determination to become a champion. "Who is she?" The princess asks. 

"Roxana,” Drakios tells her, "a fearsome combatant. Had it not been for your dear _misthios_, she would have been the day's victor." There’s something akin to bitter disappointment lacing the words. Irene’s gaze hardens as she watches the merchant rise and spread his arms. "Come!” He calls. “We shall finish the battle in the shadow of the volcano in the east.”

☤☤☤

IRENE LEAPS FORWARD, one hand clamping over a mouth, her knife plunging into a back, slicing between ribs, puncturing a lung. The guard in her grasp stiffens and hisses. She wrenches the spear free and stabs again, and again. The other Cultist guard is turning, sword already half out of its scabbard, his mouth open, drawing breath to yell. His effort is in vain. A sword crunches into his neck, cutting deep, blood spurting. Irene looks down at the two corpses. 

"Guards!" Drakios shouts. Alexios looks around the ruins of the temple on Typhon's Crown but finds they are still alone. No one has answered the man’s call. "Guards!" He shouts again, panic seeping into his voice. Irene appears behind the battle's organizer instead of his men, wiping their blood from her spear on a torn swath of fabric from one of the corpses. 

"They're dead," she announces coming to stand next to the Eagle Bearer, "now tell us what you know." Drakios refuses and settles for drawing the sword hidden beneath his robes, advancing with a flurry of slashes. Alexios deflects the blows to the side, creating an opening for Irene to strike. She does —the edge of her _kopis_ bites into the merchant’s thigh and sends him to one knee. Alexios deals the killing blow, a tight slash across Drakios’ neck, despite his empty pleas for mercy. _Good riddance_ the princess thinks, staring down at the corpse as blood seeps into the blackened earth. 

Alexios looks down at the fallen warrior, Roxana. She'd fought valiantly and honorably for such an unjust end. He staggers back, groans then falls to his knees. "All these people died just for the Cult to find me.” His voice cracks —though he had not killed the ones who came before, it feels as though their blood is on his hands regardless. 

Irene kneels in front of him, resting her forehead against his. Her hand slips down the front of his cuirass and comes away coated in blood. “You’re hurt,” she breathes. 

He doesn’t protest the statement. "I'll be fine until we get back to the ship,” he says, pushing himself back up onto his feet. 

Alexios doubles over before they can reach the _Adrestia_. This must have been the gods' will —to remind him he is not a true demigod. Irene slips her arm beneath his. "You'll be fine, huh?" She asks. His laugh is breathless as he drapes his arm over her shoulders. She can admonish him later, for now, they need to get back to the ship.

"Set a course to Sparta, Barnabas," Irene says as she helps the Eagle Bearer onto the _Adrestia_. The crew isn't sure what to think when they notice their commander limping and covered in his own blood —up until now he’s always been untouchable. Barnabas spurs the crew into motion from their gawking —lines are unmoored and cargo secured. 

They collapse inside the small pavilion at the stern of the trireme. Irene undoes the pin holding the scarf over his shoulders in place and busies herself with the hooks and ties of his cuirass. Alexios shrugs off the breastplate and leans back against the bench. She undoes the shoulder buttons of his _chiton_ and the stained linen pools low around his waist. 

He spares a glance at the wound running from his hip to navel. It still weeps red and though it doesn't seem to be very deep —it's long. "See?" He groans. "Not that bad." The princess ignores his poor attempt at humor as she sorts through her provisions. Alexios watches in a daze as she grinds several dried flowers and herbs into a thin paste with rose oil in a shallow dish. 

Irene moves closer to him and touches his cheek —hiding the unstoppered skin of strong wine behind her back. He looks at her from beneath hooded eyes and smiles against her lips when she kisses him. She gives him the brief reprieve before dumping the white vintage over the bloody gash. Alexios throws his head back and curses. "_Maláka_!" He glares at the princess, breathing labored until the burning and stinging start to fade. 

"Sorry," Irene mutters, patting his side dry with a bundle of linen. "It needed to be cleansed." He doesn't say anything, only nods and leans back again, letting her continue her practiced ministrations. After she finishes applying the medicinal paste, Alexios reaches for his _chiton_ but Irene stays his hand. "No," she says, shaking her head, "leave it uncovered." His brows furrow. "You nor I know for certain if what did that was laced with poison. I can catch any signs quicker without it being covered," the princess explains. Poison was a finicky thing —some took days or years to work, others could kill a man in a trice. 

Alexios raises his brow. "If you wanted me naked, all you had to do is ask,” he replies in the smuggest tone he can manage. 

Irene rolls her eyes and kisses his sweaty forehead. The gods both blessed and cursed her by bringing Alexios into her life. "Get some rest,” she whispers, shifting toward the entrance of the tent knowing Barnabas and Herodotus would be concerned. He grips onto her wrist before she can rise and draws the princess into his uninjured side, arms wrapping around her middle. Alexios isn’t ready to let her go —besides, the sweet scent of her hair and the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart help him sleep. 

Alexios jerks awake in the night —panting with sweat beading on his brow. He’d dreamt of his family and the night on Taygetos that’d changed everything. He shifts, finding Irene is still lying next to him —her hand slipping down his chest until he settles back down. Alexios lays his hand atop hers and marvels at how delicate it feels beneath his. 

He can’t help smiling at her sleeping form, admiring the curve of her lips, the way her eyelashes hit her cheeks —how serene she looks. His fingers card through her hair, cautious not to wake her, and he strokes over her collarbone to her shoulder and down her arm with his knuckles. _She truly is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen_, he thinks, and he struggles to fathom that he’s the one allowed to lay beside her, delighting in her existence every night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like Deimos!Alexios, check out my new story Kryptic!


	24. A True Contender

☤☤☤

STARS LIGHT THE path laid out before them. Though from where Alexios lies, one star shines out all the brighter. She has stars in her eyes, clusters of them shining bright. He reaches for her hand —lazily resting on his chest. “Are you ready to return to Sparta?” Irene asks, glancing down at him, his head resting on her thigh. 

He draws in a deep breath and brings her palm to his lips. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” he admits. On the slopes of Mount Taygetos, his life had been forfeit —a boy with the courage to stand up for his baby sister. His life had begun and ended in Sparta all thanks to the false prophecy delivered through the Pythia at the Cult’s bidding. He'd come back a blade with no name —a _misthios_— and now he would tear down those who tore his family apart. Irene smooths her fingers over his brow. 

The Eagle Bearer feels a strange sensation in his stomach as the _Adrestria_ enters the _Lakonikos Kolpos_. Barnabas tells him they are entering Spartan waters. It should feel like a homecoming, but all he remembers is the bottom of Mount Taygetos. Irene stays at Alexios’ side, her hand resting atop his —thumb running over his knuckles. It helps soothe his troubled mind but does nothing to calm the storm brewing within her. She bears no love for Persia asides from the old general who raised her and her house by the sea, but Persian blood flows through her veins, and Sparta has a keen dislike of all things foreign. 

Come midday, the Lakonian coastline is in clear sight. Myrrine's ship is already moored in Gytheion, a small fishing village south of the _polis_. The _Adrestria_ docks next to the _Siren Song_. Irene dares not step foot onto the dock, let alone on Spartan soil. "I will stay with the ship and crew," she tells Alexios. He frowns, oblivious to her trepidations. Alexios wants her by his side. "What if they discover who I am?” She asks, voice hardly above a whisper. Irene imagines the animosity Spartans must feel toward Persians since Leonidas' death have not lessened in time. If it is true the Cult has infiltrated the highest rankings of the Peloponnese League, she expects they will have no qualm about handing her over to the Order either. 

Alexios finds it easy to forget who she is—she’s of noble birth, both a princess and a demigoddess— but to him, she’s just _Irene_. The headstrong and benignant woman he loves. He presses his forehead against hers, taking both her hands. "I can protect you,” Alexios murmurs. So long as he has breath in his breast, he will not let the princess come to harm. 

Irene smiles, nuzzling his nose with hers. "Against all of Sparta?” She asks softly, threading her fingers through his. His kiss is slow and filled with longing though they have yet to part. Myrrine waits on the dock with her arms crossed, impatient. Alexios kisses her forehead and steps onto the dock too. 

"I'll tell Ikaros to keep a watchful eye.” On cue, the golden eagle dives down and perches at the railing next to Irene. Myrrine motions for him to follow and he does, though he spares one last look back at the _Adrestia_ —Irene is stroking Ikaros’ feathers, smiling at the proud bird. 

☤☤☤

IKAROS SWOOPS DOWN toward the deck, squawking. Clutched in his talons is a bundle of narcissus and asphodel flowers. "Are those for me, Ikaros?" The eagle cheeps, dropping the flowers at her feet before perching on the helm's railing. Irene scoops up the small bouquet and scratches the feathers on the underside of Ikaros’ neck. His wings spread a fraction and he coos like a pigeon. "Do you think he's okay without you watching his back?" The golden eagle cocks his head to the side and bounces from foot-to-foot on the railing. 

"So little faith,” the Eagle Bearer laughs. Irene turns from Ikaros and smiles. In two strides, Alexios has her in his arms again. They’d only been parted for five days, but after having one another as a constant presence for almost two years, it felt like a short lifetime. Irene rests her hand on his cheek, skimming over his him for any new injuries —there aren’t any.

Soon after Alexios returns, the _Adrestia_ pushes away from the dock and back into the _Lakonikos Kolpos_. The Two Kings of Sparta have each given him a task to complete, both are nearly impossible but it is the only way to prove loyalty to the nation that doomed him as a boy. Pausanias requests a Spartan victory in the Olympics, and Archidemos wants Boeotia secured for Sparta. In return, the Two Kings will release his childhood home and reinstate both his and his mother's citizenship. 

Though the Spartan grip on Boeotia slips each day, it is the Sanctuary in Olympia they must sail to first. The Eagle Bearer has been charged with escorting the Spartan pankration champion, Testikles, from a small isle off of Messenia to the games. The brute of a man believes oiled muscles grant him the strength of Herakles. He’s perhaps the most un-Spartan Spartan Irene has ever met, fond of humor and pranks and _wine_. Barnabas and most of the crew are enamored with the Olympic Champion. Though Irene swears if they do not arrive in Elis by the day's end then she will be the one to defeat the contender to spare her ears from his constant and repetitive gibbering. 

Alexios laughs at Irene’s annoyance then offers himself up as a sparring partner —to help the champion limber up before the games. Testikles has a few flashes of brilliance, leaping, kicking, grappling, and throwing Alexios to the deck. The Eagle Bearer is quick to rise back onto his feet, falling back into a boxer’s pose, fists raised and ready. The champion’s head swings around to Barnabas, cheering, and Herodotus chanting an old Spartan poem. Alexios’ fist whirls around and cracks Testikles on the jaw. He falls like a stone, then wakes moments later, demanding sweet wine and someone to oil his muscles. 

Alkibiades is waiting on the docks, eyeing another pankration fighter —the reigning champion— when they depart the _Adrestia_, Testikles in tow. “Irene, my sweetling!” The Athenian cries, the scent of wine heavy on his breath. It’s been too long since he saw his dearest princess and her _misthios_. She returns Allie’s embrace and laughs at the sloppy, quick kiss he places on her cheek. His attention turns to Alexios and the Spartan champion. 

Testikles marches forward, gleaming at the praise and applause from those gathering on the dock. Their cheers are a bandage for his wounded pride after having lost to the Eagle Bearer. “I likes to be oiled!” He proclaims, rubbing his meaty hands over his stomach. 

“We that’s obvious.” Alexios rolls his eyes, arms crossed. Irene and Herodotus exchanged worried looks, the champion is in no state to compete —it’s likely not even a night’s sleep could rid all the wine from Testikles massive frame —oiled muscles do not hold the key to sobriety. 

The brute laughs. “You knows,” Testikles smiles, spreading his arms wide and lurches forward at Alexios. He deftly steps out of the way, never expecting for one moment it could go so wrong. The fool trips on a coil of rope and platter of fruit then pitches forward. A mighty splash and plume of water bring several more bystanders to the edge of the dock. 

“Testikles?” Barnabas calls. 

Nothing. 

Then the tip of a black-fin breaks the surface next to the dock before submerging again. All stare, aghast as the water blossomed red in the moonlight. A few air bubbles rise, then Testikles’ dirty loincloth and shreds of his _exomis_ float to the surface. 

“Looks like you’re the champion now,” Alkibiades remarks, tapping Alexios on the shoulder. Irene steps back from the edge of the dock and pats Barnabas on the back as he mourns for the champion. “Why don’t you rest for the night in the guesthouse?” Allie proposes, looking between the _misthios_ and princess. “We’ll leave for the Sanctuary of Olympia at first light.”

Allie’s offer is one they cannot refuse. The villa in Kyllene is a comfortable change after having spent so much time on the _Adrestia_. Irene slips off her linothorax cuirass, laying it next to her _kopis_ and broken spear. She can hear Alexios and Alkibiades discussing the games in the courtyard as she settles back among a pile of floor cushions and pillows. 

The princess is asleep when Alexios slides into the room —she looks serene caught in the realm of Hypnos. He pulls off his armor, sinking into the palette at Irene’s side with a contented sigh. If every day could end with him lying next to her —he wouldn’t care what the fates threw at him. She shifts, sensing his presence, and seeking out his warmth. Alexios wraps Irene in his arms, kissing her temple and tucking her head beneath his chin. He can vaguely feel her lips twitch into a smile against his chest. 

Alexios is left with no choice but to take the Spartan champion's place in the pankration. Sparta would need to be represented in every event if they stood a chance of winning the games. Irene finds him before the event starts. She isn't supposed to be in the contestant quarters, but it isn't her fault the guards are indolent. Her hands go to the closures of his cuirass, unknotting the ties. Alexios recognizes the nimble fingers immediately and turns on the stool to face her. “Come to watch me win?” He asks, smirking.

She scoffs, catching the breastplate before it can hit the ground. “Come to watch someone chip a few pieces off your ego.” Alexios frowns as her hands slide down his arms, working the laces of his vambraces loose and slipping them from his forearms. 

“Irene,” he laments, one hand gripping onto her thigh. 

“Alexios," she says in the same chiding tone, but then her expression softens. The princess takes his face into her hands and kisses his forehead. "Don't die.”

Alkibiades notices her leaving the contender’s quarters and calls her over. The pankration will begin soon, and he wants to be sure Irene has a good view to watch her _misthios_ climb the ranks and emerge a champion. He escorts her to the front row of the stadium. Leander, the event overseer, quickly takes to conversing with Allie as the crowd of spectators grows —the pankration was among the most popular of the games. 

"What a specimen," Allie muses as Alexios steps into the chalked ring, facing his first competitor. Irene only rolls her eyes at his antics. The Eagle Bearer finds her in the crowd as Leander introduces the Kallias, a previous pankration champion. She can’t help the wave of heat that rises to her cheeks under his intense gaze —focused only on her. Alkibiades smirks. 

Irene can sense the question forming before he has a chance to ask. "It is still none of your business, Allie," she remarks, cutting her eyes at him. 

He holds up his hands, feigning innocence. "Of course, of course,” he chuckles as the first round commences. 

Orion hardly seems like competition for Alexios —he yields after a nasty blow to the ribs. Applause takes the stadium for the unknown contender as Leander rises to announce Erastos as the next opponent. The second round ends nearly as quickly as the first, but Alexios will have to wait to face the reigning champion, Dorieus, after being named the victor of the day. 

He escapes mostly unscathed —having split three knuckles and taken a particularly nasty blow to the jaw and nose. His opponents fair far worse, though. Irene dunks a cloth into an amphora of water, dapples away the dried blood on his upper lip before running her thumb and forefinger down his nose. "Not broken," she assures him. Alexios offers her a haggard smile as Barnabas and Allie join them under the tent. 

“Astounding!” The old sailor exclaims. “To think I could be a companion to an Olympic champion.” Irene laughs as Alexios brushes aside the praise —he’s only doing what he must to regain a place in Sparta. 

"You’re even better at _sparring_ than I am," Alkibiades remarks, his usual simper fading to something akin to discomfort. The Athenian doubles over, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the smooth, white marble street. 

Irene kneels at his side, worried, hand resting on his shoulder. “Allie?” He groans, and she knows what is wrong when he meets her eyes. "Poison,” she hisses, looking back to Alexios and Barnabas. Alkibiades mentions attending a celebration at the Leonidaion with other esteemed figures and Olympic judges before the pankration took place, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Regardless of what Allie says, Alexios decides to investigate for himself. The princess grips onto his wrist as he turns. “Be quick, Alexios,” she breathes, “I do not know how much time he has.” The _misthios_ nods and sets off with cold determination —no one hurt his friends and lived.

☤☤☤


	25. A True Champion

ALEXIOS RETURNS BEFORE the sun rises. Antidote in hand. He hands it off to Irene, who trickles the vile-smelling mixture into Alkibiades’ parted lips. Silence hangs heavy in the air as the princess holds her breath with Alexios and Barnabas. She exhales with a smile when Allie sits upright, sputtering, and asking for wine to wash away the taste. He recovers quickly after a cup of watered wine and a hunk of crusty brown bread —returning to the ongoing festivities with renewed vigor. 

“Don’t you have one last fight, Alexios?” Barnabas asks —the captain had kept Irene and Alkibiades company while the _misthios_ was away. One last round of the pankration remains between the Eagle Bearer and victory. Irene purses her lips. The match is fast approaching, and Alexios has not slept a wink given everything that had transpired, but he nods and turns to report for the event. 

Irene finds him before the match again —worried as many spoke of the prowess of the reigning champion. Alexios sits on a stool in his _perizoma_, the muscles in his back tensing and relaxing as he bends forward, rubbing rosemary-infused olive oil on his legs. He is unfazed by his opponent’s reputation for it is Kallias who is his true adversary —a member of the Cult. 

A shadow moves across the room and then soft, delicate hands come to rest on his shoulders. He leans his head back against her stomach, it is a good thing Irene arrived when she did. “Oil my back?” Alexios asks. It is tradition for athletes to compete in the pankration oiled —he’d broken tradition in the preliminary round, but the organizer kindly requested he abides by the sacred laws for this match. 

The princess pours the scented oil into her hand and starts at his shoulders. His muscles are tense with anticipation, but when she finds a spot at the base of his neck a small moan leaves his lips. She laughs, continuing her ministrations. “Didn’t want to get one of your admirers to do this?” Irene teases, pressing the heel of her palm into the base of his neck. Since his first victory, the Eagle Bearer had amassed quite the following in Olympia —children and would-be suitors alike. 

“I don’t care about them,” he says, craning his neck back to look up at the princess. _I love you_ is written in his dark eyes. Irene dips her hand into the oil for a final time, hands moving across his lower back. When finished, she steps back, wiping her hands on a strip of linen. Alexios rises from the stool and turns, holding his arms out, glistening in the sunlight coming through the window —it’s the best he’s smelled in weeks and one of strangest feelings he’s ever had. He steps in front of Irene, tilts her chin up, and steals a kiss for good luck before the final pankration match beings. 

☤☤☤

SPARTA WILL TAKE the Olympian victory with Alexios's defeat of the reigning pankration champion. A crowd gathers opposite of the Temple of Zeus before the Kallistefanos Elea —a large olive tree standing atop a pedestal. Champions and contenders from the events line up along the street —Alexios standing among them. At the front of the crowd stands Irene, Barnabas and Alkibiades flanking her sides. “Alexios of Sparta!” Leander proclaims. 

Leander reaches up, placing a wreath upon his head and steps back. The crowd offers a roar of applause. The Eagle Bearer looks around those gathered, his gaze quickly falling on Irene. She is smiling at him and everyone and everything but her fades. He does not join the fellow champions after descending the steps, instead his feet take him to the princess. 

Irene runs a _strigil_ over his shoulder, scraping off a layer of dirt, sweat, and oil. Several bruises from the match are beginning to blossom on his back and his knuckles are swollen and bloody. Besides a busted bottom lip, his handsome face remains unscathed. The princess sets the _strigil_ aside and wipes over his neck and shoulder with a damp cloth. “You still smell like rosemary,” she muses. He makes a gruff noise of disapproval, but the princess only laughs, gathering up his _chiton_. 

“We should head back to the _Adrestia_,” he remarks, adjusting the neck of his leather cuirass. Irene nods, straightening the scarlet scarf draped over his shoulders. Alexios catches her wrist when she turns to leave the contestant’s quarters, tugging her back into his chest —arms wrapping around her waist. It feels as though they have hardly seen one another since the games started several days ago and it feels good to hold her if only for a few fleeting moments. She pulls from his embrace, turns to face him and places a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. He smiles. 

Most in the streets do not give Alexios a second glance now that he is clothed in the armor of a simple _misthios_. That changes when they pass a small group of children who recognize him as a champion and as the mercenary who bears the eagle of Zeus. “We’re being followed,” Irene muses, catching a glimpse of the children trailing behind them. 

Alexios looks over his shoulder and turns —going down to one knee before the small group. “Eagle Bearer!” One girl cries —the excitement and innocence in her eyes remind Irene of a brave little girl named Phoibe. He extends his arm and Ikaros dives from the sky, gracefully spreading his wings to perch. Irene watches from the side —a hand covering the wide smile on her lips. A swell of warmth rises in her chest seeing him with children. Despite his title as a _misthios_ and his hot temper, Alexios is always patient, kind, and gentle if children are involved. _He’ll make a good father someday_ she thinks. 

☤☤☤

IRENE PERCHES ON the railing at the helm of the _Adrestia_, Alexios stands between her legs —hands holding onto her waist. She tugs on a matted lock of his hair. The euphoria of the games has yet to fade. It would be a shame to not let Barnabas and the crew bask in the joy for the rest of the night. Besides, Herodotus had yet to return from recording the accounts of the victors. "Let the crew have one more night of celebration before sailing back into war,” she asks of him, tugging on a lock of his hair. 

He smiles, catching her hand and raising it to his lips, kissing the center of her smooth palm. "As you command, princess.” Irene pushes on his shoulder —rolling her eyes. She’s no longer a princess though he is keen on reminding her that at one point she was. He glances over her shoulder at the crew and shouts. "The night's yours!" Cheers erupt on the deck. Given a few minutes, many take their leave to enjoy a final night ashore. 

Alexios places the wreath he’d won atop Irene’s head. It suits her better than him. “So _champion_," she begins, locking her ankles together behind his back and her fingers together behind his neck, "how do you wish to celebrate your victory?” Irene hopes their last night alone will not be wasted —a long journey lies ahead of them to reach Boeotia and the Spartan forces. 

His warm breath dances over his cheek as he leans toward her, tightening his grip on her thighs. “First,” Alexios starts, “I’m going to kiss you.” Irene raises a brow —surely that is not the only thing he intends to do. He traps her in place with his tawny-gold gaze, eyes flicking down to her parted lips. “And then I'll take you beneath the stars,” he adds in a low whisper. The princess smiles when his lips meet hers, making silent promises and hushed confessions. 

The following morning the crew stagger back toward the _Adrestia_ after a night of merriment and Irene discovers Alkibiades is waiting on the dock to see them off. "I couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye,” he remarks, noticing her violet _peplos_ has been replaced by a simple linothorax cuirass and dented greaves. She wears armor equally as well as the fine gowns of Athenian aristocrats. 

"Of course not, Allie," Irene smiles, accepting his embrace and the two quick kisses on her cheeks. Seeing him here has been good and telling one oldest and dearest friend goodbye is still not an easy feat. He nudges her back toward the trireme, where Barnabas and Alexios are shouting commands to prepare the ship for sailing. Irene turns toward the ship but looks back over her shoulder, still smiling. Alkibiades catches the love-bites on her neck and his smile turns into a lewd smirk. 


End file.
